


Lonely Winds Will Call My Name

by theredwagon



Series: Lonely Winds [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Spies & Secret Agents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-24
Updated: 2017-12-08
Packaged: 2019-01-22 08:42:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 49,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12477712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theredwagon/pseuds/theredwagon
Summary: A threat to Treville's elite operatives sends the team into an unexpected tailspin and puts their youngest two members directly in harm's way.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A few things;  
> -No money being made, no harm intended  
> -Story title from the song Turn Into Earth by the legendary Yardbirds  
> -This story is over 45,000 words. I prefer long chapters but I'd like to hear what you have to say as well.  
> -The scar on d'Artagnan's face after his run-in with Grimaud in 3x10 makes an appearance;)  
> -I've chosen to refer to the Secretary of State for Defence (UK) simply as 'the Minister' in this story because it seemed to fit.  
> -If you're reading my other Musketeers story, you will know that all the 'brothers' are important and everyone plays a main role.

The pub is just off the High Street, a plain brick and wood building that blends in with the rest of the shops but still inviting, the warm, yellow glow of the lights inside shining though restored paned windows. The interior is all dark polished wood and gleaming spotless glasses hanging over the bar from a rack that had been hand carved some 70 years earlier. Most of the pub’s interior goes back 100 years or so but it’d been fully restored and brought up to date 2 years prior when an unknown buyer had purchased the building and the dilapidated storeroom attached to it. The barkeep, Ben, who is also the manager of The Fleur de Lis Pub, was born and bred just three streets over and had tended bar in that same building for over 20 years, from back when it was called The Striped Pig and then The Spotted Dog and now, The Fleur de Lis. The new landlord had offered Ben a 30/70 partnership without any money changing hands with 2 simple stipulations; that Ben keep the pub running as smoothly as it always had - an easy task as he was well-liked and worked harder than any 2 men - but most importantly that Ben keep his partner’s identity a secret. With Ben Hardy at the helm, the historical pub is one of the more popular haunts for the over 25 set and one of the few pubs that hadn’t been inundated by University students in a town that hosted 15,000 of them, give or take.

 

It’s fairly busy inside, the usual weeknight crowd plus extras since its Quiz Night. Ben’s Mum Tracy does Quiz Night and the prize is a meal for the winning team, so it gets competitive, especially since Ben’s cook is well known for his pulled pork/burger combo that’s on offer. Just about everyone is taking part, aside from one table in the rear, situated between the loos and the fire exit, where a group of regulars are intent on their phones and tablets and laptops. It doesn’t seem strange to anyone, though; the young hipster couple, formerly of Camden Town, are both in the tech industry and work from home or the French café on High Street as well as here in the Fleur de Lis. The big burly fellow with the swarthy complexion is a security consultant for the Uni, so his phone is never out of his reach. The swooningly-handsome one (Tracy’s description) is a freelance translator and the oldest of the group is a bored Aristo who, after Eton and Cambridge, found himself the beneficiary of a generous inheritance but no remaining relations in the old family pile. No one knows exactly how he ended up renting the flat above the pub but he has the speech and the manners of a proper gentleman which makes him pretty popular with the church ladies. They seem an odd bunch to be pub-mates, but they are all somewhat new in town, moved in over the past two years and just seemed to gravitate towards each other. They’re all generally liked though and always have time for the locals and the truth of it is that they are all quite easy on the eye.

 

What no one knows about them though is that behind those pretty faces are secrets that only a handful of people are privy to. The seemingly-normal group speak 12 languages between them and aside from their formal education, their training is far more sophisticated and deadly than anyone in the pub could ever imagine. SAS, Navy Seals, Mossad, and other agencies with no proper names have had one or more of them at some point over the past 12 years in their ranks on behalf of Her Majesty’s Government. Weapons training, martial arts courses, survival exercises had to be successfully completed on multiple levels until they could be part of the Agency, a group so secretive they’d literally have to kill you if you found out. They do what other, more high-profile spy groups can’t; sometimes because their duties fall into a grey area, sometimes for their special technical skills, other times for their weapons training but many times for all these reasons and their decidedly unassuming appearance. They simply do not scream ‘James Bond or ‘Men in Black’ and that is one of their most valuable assets. They have a code of honour though, one that their team leader Treville holds tight to; Team 3 is special, they are not assassins or muscle for hire. National defence is their main priority but there have been times when stopping drugs, guns and organised crime have been part of their duties as well. Relocating them out of London and to Guildford slowly over the past 2 years had been deliberate; they can’t stay in one place for too long, to protect their identities and keep them above suspicion.

 

The people in town know them by the first names they’d been given at birth, complete with fake surnames and backgrounds. Amongst themselves though, they only use their code names, taken from Dumas’ Musketeer novels as a joke when they’d first been teamed together 4 years prior, until the names had stuck. That would of course make the striking twenty-something hipster couple Constance and d'Artagnan, the sexy, burly one Porthos, the classically handsome one Aramis and the attractively-disheveled, bored aristocrat Athos, their senior agent. Athos does indeed live above the pub and actually is a wealthy and titled aristocrat turned spy. His reasons had to do with a failed marriage and a devious plot against him and his family, but the rest of the group, no matter how tight knit, don’t know all the details. Constance and d'Artagnan were recruited straight out of Uni for their tech talents and trained in the military separately; she in Israel and he in the SAS, before becoming a team that posed as a couple 5 years prior. Aramis is an ex-military sniper and trained field medic turned UN translator who’d caught the eye of their boss, Treville during some crisis or another and had proven to be one of their most valuable assets. Porthos, the security expert, had actually been a master thief and safecracker who spoke fluent French and Arabic from his summers as a child in Morocco. Treville had seen something beyond common thief in the young man who had managed to get into his office 12 years prior on orders of a rival agency. He’d offered him a choice on the spot between a job and a prison term and Porthos has never regretted it.

 

Laughter and shouting around them in the pub provides a cloak of safety for their conversation. That, and the fact that the pub is swept regularly by Constance or Porthos for any unwanted devices. Athos puts his phone on the table and frowns. “It would appear as if we have an engagement on Friday. I’ve received a message requesting our services …”

 

Porthos slaps his hand on the table, rattling pint glasses and effectively stopping Athos from continuing. “Why do you always ‘ave to talk like that? Can’t you just say ‘got a message, we’re workin’ on Friday’?” His tone sounds angry but there is a twist to his mouth like he’s trying to hide a smirk.

 

Constance stifles a laugh and Aramis grins. “But then who would he be dear Porthos, if not our very own Lord of the Manor? We all have our parts to play, my friend.”

 

Porthos pokes his finger in Aramis’ face. “Now ‘es got you doin it! I know for a fact that you grew up on the next estate over, mate, so cut the posh shit. Now, your Grace,” he says, addressing Athos mockingly, “you may continue.”

 

D’Artagnan has no idea what they are discussing, nor does he actually care for the moment, because beneath the table Constance, the little wretch, has one delicately boned hand on his not so delicate cock and if she doesn’t stop soon he will come in his pants in the middle of the pub…and in the middle of Government business. So much for their fake romance. Constance for her part, seems fully focused on what Athos is saying and d’Artagnan is already plotting his revenge. After they fuck like bunnies in the ladies toilet, that is.

 

“Sorry gents, but we have to leave. I’ve left washing on the line and it looks like rain,” Constance says, rising and gathering her tablet and her miscellany. “Come along, partner, you’ll do the heavy lifting.”

 

D’Artagnan nearly squeaks in protest. His cock is throbbing and leaking in his too-tight jeans and he has no idea how is going to walk through the pub and retain his dignity.

 

“Best put your coat on, dearest,” she says sweetly, handing him his down jacket, and he nearly weeps with relief when he remembers that the baggy jacket falls easily to the top of his thighs. He takes the coat from Constance and quickly slips into it, doing the zipper up and pulling the bottom half down as far as it goes to cover his sizable erection. Porthos is looking at him strangely when he struggles to get up and stuff his laptop into his bag.

 

“You a’right mate? You look…funny?” the burly man asks, concerned.

 

“Yeah, sure, no worries,” D’Artagnan replies hurriedly, ignoring the glances from the rest of the team, his face flushed under his tanned complexion and scruffy stubble.

 

Constance puts one hand on his forehead and frowns. “We’d better get you home to bed, you are feeling a bit overheated,” she declares, her voice heavy with a mockery that seems to go unnoticed by the others. “I’ll come round in the morning for the details Athos, it looks like our hacker extraordinaire might be spending his day in bed.”

 

D’Artagnan wants to kill her and fuck her and kill her again for the torture and the innuendos but instead he mumbles his goodnights and hurries to the door, Constance right behind him. Outside and away from the prying eyes of their colleagues, he pushes her up against the doorway of the pub’s storeroom.

 

“You are a naughty, naughty girl, Madame Bonacieux”, he tells her huskily, one hand snaking between her legs, his tongue licking around the delicate shell of her ear.

 

“Off you lout, they’ll see us!” she hisses, both hands planted on his chest but he doesn’t budge.

 

“We are a couple remember? I am protecting our cover for the locals,” he replies mischievously, breathing heavily into her neck, the hard line of his cock digging into her belly. “Besides, you didn’t seem bothered about that in the Pub.”

 

She finally wiggles out from between d’Artagnan and the damp metal door, her chest heaving, expression surprised when she finds her red curls suddenly free of the barrette that d’Artagnan is holding. “I can’t help it, I love your hair down,” he says innocently. “Besides, you started it,” he reminds her, handing her a helmet from the saddlebags of his motorcycle and donning the other himself. The bike, chained to a sturdy metal post outside the pub is his pride and joy. D’Artagnan starts the bike and swings one leg over, hissing as his overly-sensitive balls come into contact with the frozen seat.

 

“Serves you right,” Constance huffs, climbing on behind him, arms snaking around his waist for the 2 minute ride home.

 

*****************************************

 

Their house is in an area that is inhabited predominantly by students. This way, their comings and goings at odd hours, the noise of the bike and the frequent visits from the rest of the team don’t bother anyone or draw undue attention to them. Constance passes him her helmet and leaves him to put the bike in the shed but she is barely through the door when he is behind her, kicking the door closed and shutting the lights as he pushes her up against the wall of their tiny foyer.

 

“Upstairs,” she says breathlessly, but d’Artagnan can’t and won’t wait. They fall against the carpeted stairs that lead to their (unofficially) shared bedroom and they fuck right there on the steps, his ass itchy with rug burn but he doesn’t care. Constance is riding him at an awkward angle but it works for them and they are both coming within minutes. Later, up in her bed, which had become _theirs_ almost from the first day they’d been partnered 5 years earlier on their first posting in Leeds, he whispers to her, his face buried in her hair as she dozes, telling her how badass and beautiful she is, how much he loves her, a soft litany of his devotion, just in case she hadn’t already known, he reasons to himself, his arms holding her gently, not wanting to let her go.

 

They’ve been playing a very dangerous game these past five years; pretending to be a couple for the rest of the world while hiding their true relationship from their superiors and their team, no their family, because Athos, Porthos and Aramis were not simply their colleagues, they were their closest friends and their brothers in arms. D’Artagnan thinks they know, but that they choose to look the other way. Last Christmas Athos had dropped them at the station to travel to their respective families for the holidays and he’d casually commented that d’Artagnan was travelling light as they only had one suitcase between them. Constance struggled for an answer and d’Artagnan cursed himself inwardly for the mistake but then smoothly replied, “Just keeping our cover in place, brother,” and Athos had simply nodded though the younger man suspected that he had not fooled their unofficial boss. In reality, they’d been off to spend Christmas in rural Cornwall, alone, where they could be themselves for a few precious days and not be afraid of being censured by Treville or having a Beretta shoved in their ribs by some Russian mobster or would-be terrorist, something that happened more often than not.

 

Despite being exhausted, d’Artagnan can’t sleep. He isn’t sure exactly what is nagging at him but he’s been restless the past few days. One sure reason for his edginess is him relationship with Constance, which in the past few months seems to have become more intense than ever despite the fact that they’ve been together for 5 years. It reminds him of the first few weeks that they’d been partnered, when they could barely keeps their hands off each other and dreaded being apart for more than a few days at a time. It is strange and thrilling at the same time, and extremely dangerous to boot. She is his other half in every sense and there are moments when the intensity of his feelings terrifies him, never having experienced something even close with any other person and it’s glorious and frightening all at once.

 

He very carefully unfurls himself from a peacefully sleeping Constance and makes his way silently to the his own bedroom next door where an unmade bed and a pair of rumpled pajama bottoms are on permanent display in case anyone should come upstairs and poke around. This door is always locked when they have real guests, people from town that they had become friendly with who know them as a couple. They had to fit in, have other friends aside from their team or else someone might get suspicious. Aramis was currently involved with a recent divorcee named Anne and happily spends most of his nights at her old family pile on the outskirts of town, thoroughly enjoying his cover as the local Lothario. Porthos coaches football for a youth group when he isn’t consulting security for the University or taking ‘personal days’ to visit his daughter Marie who lives with his ex-partner Ellie in London. Only Athos keeps to himself, appearing to others as the bored and lazy aristocrat who had nothing more to do than play online poker and drink fancy brandy at their regular table in the pub.

 

D’Artagnan knows however that Athos is certainly none of the above, aside from actually being titled and wealthy, and is the heart of their operation. The hours he spends coordinating their missions and meeting with contacts, friends and foes alike, is what has kept them safe and alive these past four years, two in London and now another two here in Guildford. D’Artagnan knows that a move will be coming soon, probably sometime in the fall he suspects, and they will each move away quietly, at different intervals as to not arouse suspicion, and Athos will gift his 70% of the Pub - yes, he is the mysterious Landlord - to Ben and on to another town and another pub and new cover stories somewhere else. For the moment though d’Artagnan’s thoughts are focused on the present and he flips on his ancient desktop and begins to skim his civilian email. A few invitations to family parties, a wedding next month, his mother complaining that she can never get in touch with either him or Constance; lucky it’s the real thing between them because his hopelessly romantic Parisian father and old-fashioned Milanese mother would probably skin him if they ever split.

 

And then there is one strange email received the day before that looks like spam, but on further inspection he realises that it’s not and for one horrible moment d’Artagnan thinks he might vomit. Swallowing bile, he goes back into the other bedroom where Constance is still sleeping and he grabs his secure phone, unlocks it and presses speed dial 2 as he goes back into his own room, shutting the door as quietly behind him.

 

“Aren’t you supposed to be ‘doing laundry’? I had no idea that was a euphemism for other activities by the way….” Athos drawls from the other end.

 

“What??” d’Artagnan squeaks, his other problem momentarily forgotten.

 

“I’m joking child, relax,” the older man soothes.

 

“I’m 28, Athos,” he replies, exasperated.

 

“Indeed you are. Now tell me what’s wrong,”

 

D’Artagnan lets out a long breath and falls back onto his unused bed. “Athos, we’ve been made, Constance and I.”

 

“You been made? Signora Rosa allowed you watch far too many American spy movies as a boy. Do you mean that your covert identity has been compromised?”

 

“Yes that is what I mean!” he replies in a frustrated whisper. “I got an email at my regular account, where I get messages from people who know my actual name, that know I’m from North London and went to Catholic school but think that Constance and I are a real couple and that we are ….real people not fake ones with names out of a fucking novel!,” he hisses. “It’s all gotten so confusing, even I can’t keep track of who we are anymore!” he moans, covering his eyes with his forearm.

 

“And are you and Constance a ‘real couple’ d’Artagnan? You have to trust me if I’m to help you.”

 

“Yes,” he replies without hesitation and fuck, it feels like a ton of bricks has been lifted off his chest.

 

He hears Athos breathing evenly into the phone and he can imagine him stroking his goatee while he thinks. “What exactly does this email say, child? Calm down and explain.”

 

“It simply says ‘I know who you are and what you do, the redhead too’ and there is a time a place to discuss it further.”

 

“Alright, do whatever it is that you do and try and find out from where it originated. We’ll meet in the morning and we will deal with this as we always do; calmly and professionally. Use your key and come through the storeroom entry, bring your bike in as well as a precaution, I’ll have the others here at 8am. Don’t fret, we’ve dealt with far worse, this is probably nothing that we can’t fix.”

 

Athos sounds so unbothered that d’Artagnan feels a surge of relief that literally makes his eyes watery with tears. “It’s just Constance I’m worried for, I can ‘andle myself,” he says, dropping the h, something he reverts to only when he’s tired or upset. Athos will fix it and Constance will be safe he thinks, with conviction.

 

He hears Athos sigh loudly. “And this is why we do not become intimate with our colleagues, child!” and then the line goes dead.

 

D’Artagnan finds his Glock, checks the clip and makes his way downstairs. He goes through the whole house, window by window, door by door before he sets the alarm and checks on Constance one more time. Then he sits down at the desk in his room, opens a few programs that he and Constance had developed themselves and gets to work. It was going to be a long night.

 

********************************************

 

D’Artagnan and Constance follow Athos’ instructions and are making their way up the back stairs that connect the storeroom to Athos’ flat at 7:55 am. Constance has been frightfully worried from the moment that d’Artagnan had woken her at 6:45 and informed her of their impromptu meeting at 8. They had showered together but they were both too wound up for sex; d’Artagnan because he knows what's at stake and Constance because she doesn't. Athos has coffee, and bless him, breakfast waiting for them and after eating and lots of complaining about the time they get down to business.

 

“Our young friends here have received an email threatening to expose them. Our engagement on Friday has been postponed or will be handled by another team. Treville has decided that this threat is of the highest priority and that we are to occupy ourselves with this task and this task alone. All agreed?”

 

“What?” Constance says, pushing her chair back and getting to her feet, all her ire focused on her partner. “And you didn’t think to tell me this as soon as you knew?” she hisses furiously.

 

D’Artagnan looks at her with eyes swollen and itchy from lack of sleep. “It was late last night, you were sleeping and I didn’t want to concern you before I had a chance to discuss it with Athos, and he with Treville,” he explains calmly in his defence but Constance looks like she’s having none of it.

 

“We are partners, you twat, we’re supposed to tell each other everything and work through everything together!” Now she looks more hurt than angry and d’Artagnan feels a sharp stab of guilt. She’s right of course, he’s mucked it all up royally.

 

“Is this threat credible and not some stupid prank by one of our own?” Porthos asks worried. “Have you tracked the server and IP it came from?”

 

D’Artagnan pours himself another strong black coffee and shakes his head. “I tried, was up all night, it pinged off too many servers, every continent and then round again. I’ll give it a go later, I fell asleep at some point.”

 

Constance is pacing, her expression unreadable, and then she takes a seat next to Aramis across Athos’ sizable dining table and away from d’Artagnan. “I’ll do it again myself,” she says, “just because ‘e couldn’t find it doesn’t mean I won’t. Is there anything else you want to share with the class, d’Artagnan? Something else you haven’t yet told us?” she asks, her voice barely controlled and her expression ice cold.

 

“There is a time and a place to meet, I’ve already told Athos, it’s tomorrow at 11am at Southbank, near the ticket sellers’ for the London Eye. I guess he or she chose that location because it’ll be crowded with tourists, less chance of one of us shooting them on the spot?”

 

Aramis, who seems uncharacteristically rumpled - d’Artagnan is sure is wearing the same clothes from their pub meeting the previous evening – chimes in. “This is how I see it; Constance, you and d’Artagnan continue to work your computer magic, Porthos, you and I will be a gay French couple waiting see the spectacular London skyline from inside that glorious glass egg and Athos can dress as a rough sleeper and set up camp on a bench, but in the meanwhile we will…”

 

Athos crosses his arms over his chest and raises one hand to silence him. “Aramis, are you high?” Athos asks, expression confused. “Because I am sure that I said this is to receive top priority and that includes formulating a rational plan that won’t get us all exposed or killed,” he says sternly and d’Artagnan flinches at Athos’ tone. Aramis has the decency to look contrite and he offers apologies. “To answer your question, no, I am not high. It just seemed like a good plan…” he says, trailing off, appearing embarrassed. D’Artagnan guesses Aramis has slept even less than he did, especially if he’d spent the night with company. In his friend’s defence, no one had expected an early morning meeting, especially not one with such a serious agenda.

 

Athos sighs and goes quiet, one hand pulling at the patch of reddish-brown hair on his chin. “There is another matter, one that must stay between us at all costs,” Athos says finally, his gaze holding Constance’s. “Don’t blame d’Artagnan, I’d already suspected, he simply confirmed it when I confronted him,” he adds, voice quiet and Constance looks stricken, like someone who has just seen a litter of puppies run over by the milk van. Her face crumples and she looks away, refusing to look at any of them, and d’Artagnan explodes.

 

“I can’t believe you just did that!” he yells furiously, “this is a private matter and you had no right…”

 

Athos slams his hand on the table. “I have every right you stupid child! We avoid becoming intimate with our colleagues at all costs! When emotions become involved we can no longer think straight or see what’s right in front of us, our heart gets in the way of our head and we make mistakes and people get killed!” he roars and at that moment everyone in the room knows that he is talking not only about Constance and d’Artagnan, but of himself and his former life in London, before he trained as a spy and before he closed himself off to everyone. It was a story for another time, but one that d’Artagnan feels Athos needs to tell, to unburden himself once and for all.

 

Athos turns to Constance and his expression soften slightly. “You are both at fault here, my dear, but the most important thing right now is to find out who our blackmailer is and stop him before he exposes the pair of you and anyone else in the agency. As far as Treville knows, no one else has received a threat of any kind so I am hoping…no praying…that this is an isolated incident.”

 

Porthos gives a now trembling Constance a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder. “It’s a’right, luv, we’ll fix this.” Then he turns to Aramis and holds out his hand. “You owe me 50 quid,” he says smugly.

 

“Absolutely not, you were to get 50 pounds if we caught them in the act!” Aramis insists.

 

Constance turns to Aramis and gives his a hard slap on the cheek. “You placed bets on whether or not we were…are…together?” she asks, shocked and d’Artagnan suspects, humiliated.

 

Aramis rubs his reddened cheek. “Constance dear, did the pair of you actually think we didn’t know that you two were in love? To be honest, I’d hoped it was just an affair, something that would fizzle out on its own once you both got it out of your system,” Aramis tells her. “For the reasons that Athos mentioned of course, and not because I don’t want two of my nearest and dearest to be happy,” he adds sincerely.

 

D’Artagnan has had enough. “If you don’t mind, and for the sake of Constance’s dignity, this conversation ends here!”

 

“My dignity? So you are implying that my dignity has been somehow compromised because we’re fucking? What century are you living in you utter wanker, that you think that you need to defend my honour? I can kill a man without a weapon, mate, I do NOT need anyone to defend my honour,” she informs him in a tone that d’Artagnan has never heard before and it makes his insides twist in fear.

 

He rises, his heart pounding as he closes the gap between them and reaches to put a hand on her shoulder. She slaps his hand away and pushes her chair back. “I’m going home…to try and track the server. I’ll be in touch later so you can tell me what your plan is, Athos. Porthos, I think my partner needs a place to stay tonight.”  
She disappears out the back door without another word and d’Artagnan moves like a man 50 years his senior, making his way to the toilet so that he can avoid losing his dignity when the tears fall.

 

*****************************************

 

Athos takes pity on him and tells him to have a nap on the sofa so that he can function. The minute d'Artagnan's head hits the borrowed pillow he falls asleep, exhausted both physically and emotionally, since in the space of just a few hours his whole world has come crashing down and for the first time since basic training he feels like everything is spinning out of control and he can’t stop it. He dreams of Constance of course and she’s furious with him, throwing his clothes at him and telling him to leave and never come back.

He wakes two hours later to the sound of a heavy downpour outside and someone clanking pots and dishes in the kitchen. He goes to the toilet, takes a spare towel from the cupboard and washes his face, running wet hands through his nearly shoulder-length hair; he’s really started to hate it but it’s part of his cover, and rinses his mouth with cool water. He takes a long look at his face and grimaces; there are dark circles under his eyes and he looks pale and sickly and the scruff on his face is turning into a beard. The thin, white scar that begins on his right cheekbone and runs diagonally down his face to end at his jaw is nearly faded a year on but today seems more prominent on his gaunt face. He frowns and runs one finger down the length of it as if that would wipe it away but of course it’s still there. It’s never bothered him before, it’s a souvenir of the time he and Porthos saved a crowd of people in central London from a remote device and it reminds him of the disaster averted that day. D’Artagnan’s family and friends think it’s from a motorbike accident; when it had happened he’d been in hospital with other shrapnel injuries, as was Porthos, and they’d easily passed off the whole incident as a wet road and some bad luck while out for a ride with a friend. Today it’s less pride that he’s feeling and more guilt at the huge lie his life has become.

 

He looks away from the mirror and lets out a long breath. His stomach feels painfully hollow as he hasn’t eaten since the previous day at around 6 pm and aside from 2 pints of Guinness in the pub and 2 black coffees, hasn’t had anything else to drink either. He puts the towel in the small hamper near the tub and he goes looking for Athos.

 

“It’s nearly 12, I’m making you lunch and you must eat it…or else,” Athos says, without looking up from the pot he’s stirring. “Vegetable soup, homemade, but the dinner rolls are from the freezer at Morrisons, I hope you don’t mind.”

 

D’Artagnan sits at the small table in the corner of the kitchen and simply nods. He doesn’t feel like he is capable of forming words.

 

“Porthos rang, no luck with the server, he went and had a crack at it as well. He’s bringing you some things, you’ll stay here tonight, where I can make sure you don’t do anything stupid, like attempt to visit Constance. You have a meeting tomorrow with a potentially dangerous person or persons of unknown origin; I need you to focus, d’Artagnan.”

 

Although he despises when Athos calls him child, the fact that he hasn’t makes him feel all the more bereft. Athos had started using the nickname when they’d met four years previous and the older man had been shocked to find out that he was only twenty four. The only reason Athos hadn’t balked over his assignment to the team was the fact that Constance was twenty six and Athos had expected her to keep him in line. That, and the fact that they’d been highly successful in their posting in Leeds doing surveillance and easy field work plus his military training had eased the older agent’s mind and d’Artagnan knows he’s made Athos very proud over the course of the past four years.

 

For the safety of his team, he must be at his best for the meeting tomorrow. He decides that after he eats he will go to the storeroom downstairs, which is actually their training area. It’s where their emergency kits and extra weapons are kept, in a vault under the floor, and there are weights and a punching bag as well as a treadmill and some mats for martial arts training. He’ll ask Aramis to come and spar with him, he needs the practice and he needs to focus. He takes pride in his contribution to the Agency and to his team. He’s been cited numerous times for courage under fire as well as for his technical skills. If he fails now, and Constance or any of his brothers in arms is hurt or exposed, his entire career would mean nothing to him, there is nothing without them.

 

They eat in silence, d’Artagnan only because he must and although the soup is perfect and the bread warm and buttery everything tastes like ash. He’s probably lost Constance now, he thinks grimly, but he pushes the thought aside and texts Aramis, asking him to meet in the training room in an hour. A quick reply comes with a simple yes and d’Artagnan forces himself to finish his food so that he can be fit to train. He silently does the washing up while Athos puts the rest of the food in containers for in the freezer and he excuses himself, mumbling quietly his intention to spend some time training with Aramis. Athos just nods and lets him go.

 

***********************************************

 

“What was all that bollocks you came up with earlier?” d’Artagnan asks, breath coming in heavy pants, one bare foot on Aramis’ belly.

 

On the training mat Aramis lets out a snort and a laugh, reaching out one hand to the younger man to help him up.

“An attempt to lighten the mood so you two youngsters didn’t have to face ‘the wrath of Athos’,” he says, now upright and reaching for a towel from the pile. “I’ve always wondered, who cleans this place, launders our linen and fills our mini-fridge, since this is a secret lair and all that?”

 

“Treville has people,” d’Artagnan replies absently, and realises that it is yet another attempt by Aramis to lighten the mood. He drops down gracelessly, back against the cold stone wall, sweat dripping from strands of long, dark hair in his face. A towel is dropped on his head and he uses it gratefully.

 

Aramis sits down in front of him and the older man reaches out and rests his hand on d’Artagnan’s knee. “None of what happened today is actually your fault, Constance will see that when the fog clears.”

 

D’Artagnan tosses the towel aside. “Maybe. But rule one from day one between us was no coddling. Anytime she thought I was trying to protect her or put myself in danger for her a massive row erupted, I’ve actually used my own room more times than you might think,” he says with a grimace.

 

Aramis chuckles. “From day one? You mean day one on the job?”

 

D’Artagnan gives him a sheepish smile.

 

“To be frank, I had no idea how long you’ve been…together. It’s only in the past few months that Porthos and I have truly noticed. There was always a…tension, if you will, between the pair of you, but recently we’ve noticed that you look at her like she is the sun and the moon and everything else in the universe that is precious, lad, there’s no way you can hide it anymore. You’ll have to work it out with Athos, maybe one of you can come out of the field or be temporarily separated…”

 

“That’s if she hasn’t already made arrangements to be separated,” he replies miserably.

 

“Lad, we have a difficult situation before us, and the most important thing now is dealing with this security leak. I suggest you take a long shower, eat your porridge like a good boy and sleep for at least 10 hours. If Constance is still angry with you after this is all done, I promise you that I will do everything in my power to fix it,” Aramis says with conviction. “You two brats are the younger siblings I never wanted, I can’t let you go on being miserable and broody, it’s depressing.”

 

D’Artagnan feels a lump in his throat at Aramis’ words. They are a family, sharing each other’s pain and joy, supporting each other during their darkest moments, and Aramis’ words give him hope.

 

“Thanks, mate, that means a lot,” he manages to say, pulling himself up from the floor.

 

“Don’t mention it, brother, now go, or Athos will come drag you up those stairs and I’ll feel the brunt of his anger. He’s been texting me for the past quarter of an hour.”

 

D’Artagnan smiles gratefully. “I guess you won’t be spending the night with Anne?” he asks innocently.

 

Aramis grimaces, gathering his scattered clothes and keys. “No, and we had plans so you owe me one!”

 

D’Artagnan nods and follows him to the back stairs that lead up to Athos’ flat, shutting lights as they go. He owes his brothers more than one, he thinks with a pang, he owes them everything.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shorter chapter, hope you enjoy. Thanks so much for the comments and the kudos :)

The van arrives at 7 am. It’s a silver Mercedes with a taxi logo on the door. The company doesn’t exist of course, but it’s more covert than using a dark suv with blacked out windows or something equally conspicuous. In the driver’s seat is Serge, Treville’s comrade-in-arms since their soldiering days and although he has the look of a man who’s had a few too many in his lifetime, he is the most skilled driver on their team. Constance, Porthos and Aramis are already inside when d’Artagnan and Athos enter the vehicle. The love of his life is in the back row with Porthos and, always the professional, she greets them both politely and by name. Porthos, however, just grunts at him and d’Artagnan suspects that he is angry with him over the whole thing, though he’s not sure if he’s taken sides or if he is just disgruntled over the upheaval in their little group. Aramis, bless him, is his usual jovial self and he takes the piss out of d’Artagnan over the bruise their sparring session has left on the younger man’s jaw.

The ride from Guildford to London takes just over an hour but to d’Artagnan it feels like ages. He and Athos are in the back-facing seats since Aramis has the case with his precious sniper rifle on the seat beside him. His view of Constance is hampered slightly by the other man’s head and he tries not to appear conspicuous as he attempts to meet her gaze. Constance though has her head buried in the file on her lap and hasn’t looked his way once since the van pulled out from in front of the pub.

“Aramis will be covering you, and as always you won’t know from what building so you don’t accidentally tip off your contact. Porthos and I will be closer though in case it goes badly. Constance will be monitoring communications from the van while Serge obtains photo material. This is a fact finding mission, d’Artagnan. You must remain calm and professional as if this were any other case and find out what they want as quickly and efficiently as possible,” Athos is telling him, going over the plan for the hundredth time as if he is some green boy in his first rodeo. But Athos knows he can be a hothead and since this is about Constance, the older man is probably afraid he might lose his composure.

“The less you say the better, aside from trying your best to ascertain how our security was breached and if they know anything about any other members of the Team 3 or the Agency.”

It’s early yet and they have a short meeting planned with Treville who gets in the passenger seat of the van somewhere near Waterloo Station. The breach of protocol between d’Artagnan and Constance is not addressed and d’Artagnan is undyingly grateful to Athos for keeping their secret, at least for now. Treville’s blue eyes show genuine concern for his young agents and he says all the right things, platitudes about protecting their identities and their families if need be and d’Artagnan knows that he is a man of his word.

With some time to kill, half of them duck into a Starbucks for coffees and pastries and they take turns using the facilities and stretching their legs. Constance still has not spoken to him nor even met his gaze, even when they end up alone in the van. Constance has her coffee in one hand and her phone in the other, her eyes glued to the screen and d’Artagnan bins the chocolate doughnut he was attempting to eat, stuffing it into the bag with the rest of the rubbish, his stomach in knots. The rest of the team return to the vehicle and the awkward silence is - as always - broken by Aramis and some meaningless anecdote about gender-less toilets. 

At half-past ten they move into place, d’Artagnan the last to exit the vehicle as he tries once more to catch Constance’s gaze. She doesn’t do him the favour though so he checks his mic and takes his weapon holster off his shoulder, leaving it on his seat before slipping into his black leather jacket. He pulls the door shut behind him and makes a casual beeline for the bench near the London Eye ticket office his blackmailer had designated, finds it mercifully free and sits to wait. 

He knows the others are close, and he knows that Constance is safe but the sick feeling in his stomach refuses to leave him. This is personal, this is about him and Constance and something like this has never happened before. His blood boils at the thought of anyone threatening her and he has to make use of a yoga exercise he’d learned from Aramis to calm his anger and slow his pulse.

A woman sits down next to him and he freezes when she greets him by name. She’s about his age, fairly common appearance, light brown hair, blue eyes, medium height and build. The spy in him is taking it all in and saving it for later use. She takes a phone out of her handbag and pretends to be scrolling through it as she talks.

“Believe it or not just one week ago I was employed by the very same people as you are,” she begins, her voice even and almost pleasant. It’s a clear day and the area around them is teeming with tourists and d’Artagnan hopes to God there is no collateral damage. “And because I am in no mood to monologue it’s very simple; I want a cash payment to keep your identities safe, I disappear, you go back to doing your thing and we never bother each other again.”

D’Artagnan nods his head slowly. “I don’t think we’ve ever met before…have we ever crossed paths or…”  
She snorts out a laugh. “No, I don’t know you and I don’t give a rats arse about either of you. I was fired, debriefed in a manner I am sure you’ve probably done to someone yourself at some time, and sent away without a reference and a grocery list of threats against me and my family.”

“I’m sorry, that sounds awful,” he says meaningfully. “And I’ll make sure you get what you want…but I need to know…why?”

The girl lets out a hysterical giggle. “I’ve been asking myself the same question over and over again! Because I am a nobody, a computer analyst at the MoD and I did not ask for this to happen! One of the higher-ups calls me to their office and tells me that it has come to his attention that I have certain…skills, and that I am needed for a matter of national security. He said that he needed all the Team 3 personnel files immediately, that you lot were in danger and they needed to contact you, going through regular channels could get you all killed. See, now I know this person, yeah? I’ve seen him around in the building and I know he’s high up on the food chain, so technically he’s one of my superiors, there was no reason not to believe him,” she says miserably. “Yours and the redhead’s files are attached to each other and when I hacked into Team 3’s records you two came up first. But I got cut-off almost immediately because there is a lock-down protocol when there is a breach. I stupidly thought I was good enough to stop it, but I couldn’t. I managed to get most of your information and your girls’ and I copied it on to a usb stick and gave it to the wanker who put me up to it. When I handed it over instead of being grateful I was told if I ever revealed his identity me and my family would disappear. I thought he was saying that because of you lot, to keep your team safe and all that bollocks, so I just agreed.”

There’s a short pause while she tries to calm herself. ‘Go on,” d’Artagnan urges her, careful to keep his tone gentle, afraid he will spook her before getting what he needs.

“The next day though, security narrows down the breach to my section and a group of us are accused of hacking, dragged away by some squaddies and interrogated by the very same person, now playing the role of dedicated MoD employee. He looked as frightened as me, to be honest, I don’t think he expected us to get caught. When we’re alone he tells me ‘we’re in this together” and he’ll kill me if I don’t play along and play dumb,” she tells d’Artagnan, her voice trembling with fear and anger. “With his threats hanging over me and the entire MoD watching, all I could do was deny any involvement. After three days in detention and no actual proof that I or any of my colleagues had tried to hack the database we were freed, but only I was fired.”

She turns to look at him and gives him a slow once over, her mouth twisting into a sneer. “You and that redheaded girl must be as important as Her Majesty herself if your personnel files are so valuable. Sorry to say, you don’t look all that impressive.”

D’Artagnan grimaces. “I assure you I’m not, neither of us are. Look, is there any way we can solve this without making things worse for all of us? Treville will help you, keep you safe, if you tell me who involved you in all of this, he’s honest and …”

She moves towards him, just a few centimeters separating their thighs when she leans in close. “No, there’s no turning back. I need money to leave the country immediately and take my Dad and my partner with me. Our phones are monitored, our every move is scrutinized, next I’ll wash up on some beach in Cornwall and they’ll call it suicide. It took me two hours just to get here from Charing Cross ‘cause I had to lose the twat that was following me! I’m not asking for millions, just get me enough for me to live on some farm in, say, Albania and your identities stay safe. Refuse and a failsafe that I created from the files I saved will flood the internet with your identities, it will make sure that you and the lovely Constance will be front page news globally,” she says coldly. “Every mobster, every gunrunner, every terrorist on the planet will be gunning for the two of you. Kill me and the same thing happens, kill my partner or my Dad, and well, you get the gist of it.”

She rises and takes an envelope out of her handbag. “Don't fuck with me," she warns. 'I know your Mum's maiden name and where your girl's Gran lives, and if necessary, the whole world will know as well. Here are your instructions,” she says, handing it to him. “I’m actually doing you a favour you know. Someone in the MoD wants Team 3’s files without your consent and now at least you know. I can’t tell you who, I’m not stupid enough for that, but at least now you know to watch your back.”

“I’m sorry for what’s happened to you, I truly am, and if you let us help you we can ensure your safety and bring the person who threatened you to justice. You say you were followed by one bloke, what if there were more? Someone could be watching us right now! For your sake and the sake of your family you need to let me take you to Treville,” he tells her logically, stuffing the envelope in the inner pocket of his jacket. “You know you will never really be safe, don’t you?” D’Artagnan actually feels sorry for her; nothing about the way she’s been treated is fair and he knows for a fact that she will always have a target on her back.

“Agreed, only thing is, neither will you or your girl, so we’re just going to have to trust each other because I sure as fuck will never trust anyone else in the MoD, not Treville or you or anyone. And because I need you to know that we are serious…” she says, leaning over to whisper in his ear, “just to be clear, this wasn’t my idea…” she tells him, before she jabs a needle into his neck and then slowly backs away.

D’Artagnan lets out a sharp hiss and reaches up to touch the spot where the needle had pierced him. “What the…?” he manages to gasp before vertigo sets in almost instantly.

“The formula for the antidote is in the envelope, you’ll be fine. I’m sorry about that…truly,” she says with a grimace and then she melts into the crowd.

In his ear piece, d’Artagnan can hear voices; Athos screaming at Aramis not to shoot, Constance frantically calling for a med-evac and Porthos cursing like a sailor as his head begins to spin and his stomach begins to cramp. No longer in control of his limbs, he slips sideways gracelessly, and an unknown woman cries out as he topples to the ground. He blacks out and comes to seconds later when Porthos picks him up like a rag doll and hurries him through the frightened and concerned throng of tourists, the older man shouting that he’s a medic as he moves. An ambulance arrives and he’s strapped to a gurney and Athos is arguing that they cannot give him fluids since he’s been poisoned and they don’t know by what. He knows Aramis is there because his friend is whispering reassurances in his ear and now the pain is expanding, tearing through his chest and his limbs and he whimpers because he is too weak to scream.

Through the haze he hears Constance giving instructions to someone; it sounds like she’s talking about chemicals or something, but he can’t be sure because the pain is so overwhelming that he slips in and out of consciousness. The jostling of the gurney into the ambulance makes him cry out, his transfer to what he thinks is a helicopter even worse. By his side the whole time is Aramis, soothing him with words he can’t fully understand and he wants to call out for Constance; Constance who is not with him and probably doesn’t want him anymore, Constance who is too angry to even hear what he has to say in his defence, Constance who is the only woman he has ever loved and ever will. And then there is a sharp cry from Aramis, his name maybe d’Aratagnan thinks, and from there on it’s all black. 

************************************

D’Artagnan has no idea that his heart had stopped in the helicopter for 32 seconds. He doesn’t know that Aramis, normally so calm and levelheaded, nearly passed out himself from fear and shock. Luckily for both of them the highly trained medical personnel on board the military helicopter did not panic. Two shocks from the defibrillator and d’Artagnan is back but in and out of consciousness, everything a jumble of agonising pain and difficulty breathing. Aramis has barely let go of his hand. Under other circumstances d’Artagnan would be taking the piss out of him, maybe asking Aramis if they were a thing now but at the moment all he can do is hold on to the other man, taking the gesture for what it offers; comfort, in what seems like an endless haze of suffering. He is aware of being moved and hears voices giving orders; he chokes on a tube being forced down his throat and then a needle pricks his forearm and then…oh fuckin’ ‘ell…something freezing enters his veins in a rush and he struggles to sit up, this new pain coursing through him so unbearable he tries anything to escape it.

“What the fuck!” Aramis barks out angrily as the medical teams tries to restrain d’Artagnan gently.

“It’s the antidote. Whoever did this knows a lot about making someone suffer,” a woman mutters angrily and d’Artagnan feels his body relaxing in increments as the liquid hell finally begins to ease his agony. His limbs are trembling and he’s pretty sure he’s drooling around the plastic tube in his mouth and he vaguely hopes he hasn’t peed himself as well. Aramis is stroking his hair, pushing the damp, sweaty strands off his forehead as someone wipes his face and neck with a cool, wet cloth.

Time slips past him and he senses less people around him. The tube is gone from his throat but there are machines blipping and soft whispers somewhere nearby; Aramis he thinks, speaking with someone, maybe a nurse or a doctor.

His throat is aching and dry and he can barely get the words out of his mouth but he tries. “W’rs Constance…” he tries to ask, but he doesn’t know if it comes out like anything more that a garbled moan.

“Oi, look who’s alive,” Aramis says, his voice teasing but his expression worried and tense. D’Artagnan can barely keep his eyes open so he tries again.

“Constance?”

“She’s fine, lad, sitting outside your room with her personal bodyguard in tow…Porthos, of course,” he adds cheekily. 

“Where ‘r we?”

Aramis smiles. “Don’t you recognize the décor? We’ve all spent enough time here,” he adds.

Confused, d’Artagnan tries again. “No idea…”

“Military hospital, lad, where else?”

D’Artagnan tries to nod but it makes the room spin. “And the girl?”

“Got away, the bitch. She knew we’d have to move fast on you, well played on her part, but now we know that we are dealing with someone far more dangerous than we originally anticipated. Treville’s in charge, nothing for you to bother yourself about now, lad,” the older man tells him reassuringly. 

Yes, nothing to worry about aside from his and Contance’s future together, their careers, the safety of their team and their families. Unbidden, a tear slips from one swollen and sticky eye and he tries to lift a hand to wipe it away but finds that he is too weak to do so.

It disappears though, wiped away by a finger much smaller and gentler than Aramis’ and he thinks it might be Constance, or maybe it’s just his imagination being cruel he thinks, as he slides into darkness with a soft sigh.


	3. Chapter 3

Thirty six hours or so have passed since d’Artagnan had been poisoned and they are all together now in the hotel suite that Treville had secured for them the evening before. D’Artagnan had been released a few hours earlier and had been transferred by ambulance along with Aramis to the hotel, hustled through the service entrance up to the suite where the others had been staying. A ‘welcome home’ party had been declared by Porthos and he and Constance went for take-away which they shared with an exhausted looking Treville, who had appeared at their door with Serge, Wilton and Spears. Wilton and Spears, like Serge, had served with Treville in the military. Once upon a time the four of them had been the original Team 3 and d’Artagnan knows they are all loyal to a fault. With the three of them in the corridor outside the suite, he knows that no one is getting through those doors.

“I have just been informed that the Minister has been aware of the breach for the past week, from the day it actually happened. His closest advisers recommended destroying all agency records to protect our employees and agents but Rochefort, that ass, in his capacity as ‘special adviser’ convinced him it will cost millions to rebuild the database and so for now, all personnel files are locked down, no one can access them,” Treville explains, but his expression says that he is clearly not satisfied with the security situation. “He told me that Rochefort ‘assured him that it must have been some sort of accident’ since everyone questioned has been cleared, and there was reason to alarm us. One person was fired - our blackmailer Antonia Marks - because Rochefort claims she was found to be uncooperative and insubordinate, but not guilty of treason.”

“Why just us, sir? Why Team 3 specifically?” Constance asks, confused.

“I have an idea but I can’t be sure until I get access to the files and video of the interrogations, I've alreay put in a request for them. If this girl is telling the truth then our traitor will be the one doing the interviews.”

“And the fuckin’ poison? Is that girl some kind of chemist or something?” Porthos asks, practically snarling.

Treville shakes his head. “No, not her but it’s our bad luck…or d’Artagnan’s actually…that her boyfriend, a bloke called James Barret, has a degree in biochemistry and after what’s been done to Antonia, he has fairly large bone to pick with us, hence the custom poison.”

D’Artagnan winces as he pulls himself into a sitting position. The posh hotel’s memory foam bed has been a blessing; the aftereffects of the poison and the antidote have left him weak and aching all over. There are empty take-away cartons strewn all over the small table and the team are all dressed down in varying degrees in borrowed clothes provided by Serge; Porthos is in a track suit and a tee like Aramis, Athos in grey jersey and jeans and both d’Artagnan and Constance are wearing pyjama bottoms, the latter buried to the neck in a soft cotton jumper, her hair in a ponytail, her face devoid of all traces of makeup. To d’Artagnan, she has never looked more beautiful, aside from the worry lines that mar her pale face. 

“Who was in charge of this mess, and why were you not informed at once? Constance and d’Artagnan were at risk this whole time!” Athos says, angry.

Treville loosens his tie, his expression terse. “Probably that maggot Rochefort. Ever since that snake wormed his way up the ranks of the Ministry of Defence he’s been gunning for us.”

“So our own employers kept you in the dark about a situation that could ‘ave lead to our exposure or worse?” Constance asks, shocked.

“Rocheforte hates us, Constance, and me specifically, he has for years and even more so since he was removed as the head of Team 2 ten years ago. I played a small part in his forced ‘retirement’, since I had no choice but to testify about a botched mission. How he managed to get a position elsewhere in the MoD is beyond me,” Treville replies wearily. “He’s been relentlessly rallying the Minister to reduce our size and manpower, says that we are a waste of money since MI5 and MI6 already exist. I have tried to discreetly let the Minister know my feelings regarding his resentment towards the Agency, the other Team leaders have done so as well but he won’t budge. Louis is a decent bloke but he can’t see through Rochefort’s dedicated public servant facade,” he says disgustedly.

Porthos snorts. “The fuck all he knows about what we do if ‘e thinks they don’t need us. So you say he’s had a ‘ard on for us ever since he was sacked? That’s a helluva vendetta ten years on.”

“So we are assuming that Rochefort himself is our mysterious enemy? With all due respect sir, why didn't you simply ask Louis or even Rochefort who did they interrogations?” Constance questions.

“I want to see everything that happened for myself before I let anyone think I am suspicious of one of our own. For now Louis thinks my request has to do with the girl. And to answer your first question there’s no one else who would have gone specifically for us, but I can only confirm this if I get access to the video. If it’s not him on the video it’ll be that slug Marcheaux, which is the same thing since he’s his flunky.”

“Marcheaux is no fan of mine or d’Artagnan’s,” Constance reminds everyone with a frown. “There was that bar brawl where he got his arse handed to him, he’s held a grudge against the both of us for years.”

“Brilliant, anyone else ‘ave any enemies they’d like to add to the mix?” Porthos grouses.

“Who locked down the database?” Aramis asks, kicking off his trainers. He lays down on one of the two sofas and Porthos protests when he puts his feet on top of his thighs.

“There’s another sofa, mate,” Porthos grumbles but doesn’t push him away.

“That one is for Constance,” he says matter of factly. “Sir? The database?”

“It locked itself down, there’s a protocol if there’s a breach. No one can access it if that happens until a full investigation has been completed. Since it’s still ongoing it remains locked down which is a blessing for the moment, keeps everyone else in the Agency somewhat safe. Aside from whatever Antonia shared about d’Artagnan and Constance, the worst Rochefort could do to the rest of you is share photos and aliases, he doesn’t know who you really are, where your families live and what missions you’ve taken part in, he doesn’t even know about Guildford; as you know, Team Leaders make all arrangements, handle their own budgets and logistics and we do not share that information or keep records of it for the MoD. And I’m sure you’re all more than capable of knowing if anyone had been following you or spying on you, correct?”

“Undoubtedly,” Athos affirms. “Do you have security watching over Constance and d’Artagnan’s families?”

“Of course, arranged through their local police though since I don’t know who I can trust at Whitehall at the moment. Twenty-four hour close security, reporting back to me only, and no one, not even your families, will be the wiser,” he tells d’Artagnan and Constance.

D’Artagnan carefully processes everything he’s heard. “So we actually have two problems to deal with,” he says quietly, his voice still hoarse and his throat still sensitive from the tube that had been shoved down his throat. “There’s our blackmailer, Antonia, who’s gone bonkers and Rochefort who probably is and always has been working against us.”

Treville rises and stuffs his phone in the inner pocket of his suit jacket before he answers. “Probably, yes, two problems to deal with,” he replies, clearly worried. 

The door to the hotel room opens and Serge enters. “Time to go Captain,” he says, referring to Treville with the rank he’d held for years in the military. 

“The room next door is yours as well so no one sleeps on the sofa,” the older man says, giving Constance a small smile. “The key, a substantial amount of cash and two credit cards are in the envelope I’ve left on the desk,” he says, indicating an A4 sized brown envelope. “You are to stay put and not to return to Guildford until I say. I trust no one aside from my inner circle. Meanwhile, the Minister and Rochefort know most of what’s happened to d’Artagnan. Even if I wanted to keep it quiet while we investigate Rochefort, d’Artagnan was admitted to the MoD’s medical facility and we used the helicopter med-evac so the Minister was informed, it’s protocol when any agent or operative is injured.”

“Surely you didn’t tell them everything the girl told d’Artagnan?” Athos asked, one brow raised.

“Of course not. I told them that she is angry over being fired and wants recompense, that she’s trying to blackmail Team 3 over some insignificant information that she’d seen months ago. Rochefort went ballistic and wanted to have her brought in immediately and I had to convince the Minister that she might trigger the supposed failsafe and expose the Team. He is allowing us to handle it ourselves, despite Rochefort’s growling. It’s a major cock-up at this point and Rochefort is probably wondering what she told us, he looked like he was going to have a stroke when I started explaining the whole mess to Louis.”

“Do you think the girl is safe? What if Rochefort thinks she told us everything?” c’Artagnan asks sceptically. “He ruined her, is he capable of killing her?”

“Maybe, I don’t know, but I’ve got surveillance on the house she shares with her father. Remember though, our resources are limed because I simply don’t know who we can trust, I can’t guarantee her safety if she doesn’t come to us. Athos, the cash drop is day after tomorrow and we need a plan to bring Antonia in and talk some sense into her, see what the lot of you can come up with. D’Artagnan, a medic will come in the morning to look you over. Aramis, if Serge doesn’t bring him do not open the door for anyone else, understood?”

Aramis assures Treville that he will not let anyone past him that isn’t authorised and the older man leaves with Serge. They’ve set a time to speak in the late morning, with Treville hoping to get access to the surveillance video of the interrogations by then. 

Porthos takes out a coin and smirks. “I’ll flip one o’ you for the bed next door?”

“You’ll share with me, I don’t snuggle, I promise,” Athos says with a hint of humour. “Aramis, you and Constance will stay in here. Ring housekeeping and request extra bedding for the sofa bed but do not let them in. Take turns sleeping, since ‘The English Patient’ there still can’t take care of himself,” he adds drily. 

“Oi, I’m right here and I’m perfectly capable of takin’ a piss on my own!” d’Artagnan protests, feeling indignant. 

“Whatever you say, child,” Athos replies with a ghost of a smile. They go through a quick weapons check, d’Artangan as well, and as soon as the bedding arrives and the rubbish from their late night picnic is cleared away they agree to meet back at 9 am.

“I’ll take first watch, I’ve had too much caffeine anyway,” Constance says when Athos and Porthos have departed. 

Aramis flops down on the sofa bed with something like a moan. “You’re an angel my dear, I’ve spent the last two days in a chair,” he says with a grimace. “I hope no one objects to my boxer shorts because I seem to have a lack of spare clothing at the moment,” Aramis says, kicking off his sweats.

“Just don’t take those off too, mate,” D’Artagnan replies, carefully swinging his legs over the side of the bed. For a moment though he sees stars and he makes a small involuntary sound that brings Constance to his side.

“Oh for fucks sake you idiot, wait for one of us to help you!” Constance says angrily, but d’Artagnan doesn’t mind because she’s touching him, probably for the first time in two days. He leans on her, more heavily than actually necessary and lets her lead him to the toilet. She opens the door for him and turns on the light and then closes it behind him, waiting discreetly outside for him to finish.

“Do you lot need help over there?” Aramis calls. 

“I’m sure d’Artagnan, can manage a wee on his own,” Constance retorts.

D’Artagnan however actually is having trouble; not taking a piss or washing his hands but keeping his balance as he does so. A moment ago he might have been faking it just a bit, but now he really does need someone to steady him.

He clears his throat and grips the vanity tightly. “Constance,” he says, her name coming out like a harsh bark. “Can you…” he begins and she’s there in a shot, supporting his weight wordlessly as they return to the bed. She helps him lie down and covers him, shuts the lights and settles into the arm chair next to the bed, her weapon on the bedside table next to his. Aramis is snoring loudly by now, not surprising since he hadn’t left the hospital the entire time d’Artagnan had been there.

“Go to sleep,” she says quietly. “We need to be up in a few hours,”

“I um…I haven’t seen much of you, well since yesterday morning…” he begins, turning carefully on his side.

“I was there…” she says quietly. “But I couldn’t stay. Once you were out of trouble Athos brought us all here.”

D’Artagnan nods slowly. “And you had no choice?”

“Yes, d’Artagnan, I had no choice whatsoever. Athos is quietly fuming,” she tells him flatly. “Anyway, he is right you know.”

D’Artagnan feels like he might vomit up the half bowl of rice he’d managed to eat earlier. “Right how Constance?”

“Right to be angry that we kept our relationship a secret…and right to be furious that we blatantly disregarded the no fraternisation rule…right to accuse us of putting everyone, including ourselves, in danger,” she tells him in a whispered hiss. “It literally just hit me how irresponsible we’ve been the past 5 years. I knew what we were doing was wrong, but I kept telling myself it was alright because we loved each other, that we were good at what we did and we really weren’t hurting anyone. But what if we had, d’Artagnan? What if one of us had made a choice that would have hurt one of our team members, our friends? I feel like I should go over every job we’ve been given over the past 5 years to see if our relationship had in some way affected the outcome,” she tells him miserably, tears now running freely down her face.

“They knew! They as much admitted to knowing and none of them said anything so I refuse to feel like this is only our fault! Athos suspected and he let it continue and now he wants to punish us for it?” he asks, incredulously.

“Lower your voice, you’ll wake Aramis!”

“I don’t care if I wake the dead! I love you, Constance, and I know you love me, if you start second-guessing that fact all these years later where does that leave us?”

“It leaves us fucked six ways to Sunday! Let me ask you something; how do you propose we fix this?” she asks, sounding utterly hopeless.

“We’ll fix it, I promise. I’ll speak to Treville, tell him everything, I’ll put all the blame on myself, ask if you can come out of the field but still be part of the team…” he tells her, remembering what Aramis had suggested, convinced that it can work.

Constance nods her head slowly. “So I should come out of the field? How about you stay home in front of a computer and I stay with the team?”

“What? NO! I’d go mental worrying if you were alright and I…” he begins but stops himself when he realises what he is actually saying. He flops onto his back and stares blankly at the light fixture on the ceiling. His reasoning is ridiculous and he has nothing to say in his defence.

“And there, in a nutshell is why we should have never been in a relationship. You've just spelled it out yourself; worrying about each other, trying to take the blame or a bullet for each other…d’Artagnan, it has to end here.”

“So that’s it, 5 years and the first obstacle we find you’re calling it quits,” he tells her, his voice hoarse and heart slamming in his chest like a jackhammer. 

Constance leans forward and squeezes his hand tightly. “No, I’m not, I love you, that will never change, but something else has to. Maybe we should both quit? Or ask Treville to see if he can assign us both to a desk somewhere, you know, a normal life.”

D’Artagnan lets out a long breath before he speaks. “I don’t think either of us would be ‘appy like that, do you? Nine to five, an hour on the tube, coming home with a take-away box, a night at the pub, be in bed by 9, rinse and repeat?”

“You make your life as fulfilling as you choose, d’Artagnan, it doesn’t have to be like that. We can work from home, freelance or move abroad if we want, nothing is standing in our way, we’re educated and we have skills and…”

“Right, we’ll put ‘hired guns’ on our CVs. What is it you said day before yesterday, Constance? Oh right, ‘can kill a man without a weapon’, that one will go over well with potential employers...”

Constance gets to her feet and hovers above him so that he has to look at her. “Sounds to me like you’re the one who wants to call it quits,” she says, eyes swollen and red, her expression angry and accusing. She goes to the bathroom but doesn’t bother to turn on the light or fully close the door so he assumes that she’s gone in there to get away from him. He manages to get himself out of bed with greater ease than earlier and crosses the room quietly on bare feet to find her sitting on the edge off the tub, crying silently in the dark. 

D’Artagnan closes the door behind him and locks it for good measure. He reaches out and pulls her to her feet and he loses his balance slightly so they’re both stumbling and falling against the bathroom door. 

“I never want to be apart from you, ever,” he whispers into her hair, arms around her, holding on as much as holding her. “I love you, I ‘ave from the moment you walked into Treville’s office dressed in your dusty combat uniform. I wanted to propose to you and get into your knickers all while you stood there...bad ass soldier and brilliant tech genius...you were all my dreams come true in one gorgeous package,” he tells her, meaning every single would he was saying. “Thankfully you seemed to think that my skinny arse, bow legs and Justin Bieber haircut did it for you too because my 23 year old self was prepared to get on my knees and beg you to be with me,” he continues, knowing full well he’s rambling and crying now as well.

Wordlessly, Constance pulls him gently from the door, shuts the toilet lid and pushes him down to sit, straddling his legs and wrapping her arms around him, holding him close, her body giving off little shudders as she sniffles through the last of her own tears. The pressure she’s putting on his groin is highly distracting though and to his shock and despite everything he’s been through, he’s getting hard. Constance seems surprised as well because she pulls back slightly and gives him a quizzical look and he uses the opportunity to lean in and kiss her. 

The kiss starts out tentative and gentle, d’Artagnan is feeling unsure and unsettled and doesn’t want to push. But Constance takes the lead and deepens the kiss until teeth are scraping and lips are chafing and he gasps as she starts to ride him through their clothes, rubbing herself back and forth on his aching cock, the little noises that he loves escaping her throat. It takes a few manoeuvres but she gets their clothes around their ankles and she sinks down onto his cock with no further foreplay. They’re moving in a desperate rhythm, no finesse and even less patience, and she has to put one hand over his mouth when he lets out a strangled sound when she comes, her orgasm triggering his own and he’s holding her in a tight grip that will surely leave bruises as he shudders through an almost painful release, new tears snaking down his face when he buries his face in her neck.

Their harsh breathing is the only thing that can be heard in the chilly bathroom. Outside on the street they hear a siren wail through the tiny window above the tub and they both seem to startle at that, and d’Artagnan remembers then that Aramis is sleeping in the room on the other side of the door. They clean up as quietly as possible, Constance fretting over the wet and soiled washcloth but d’Artagnan solves her problem by tossing it into the bin along with the used tissues. He takes her hand and when they are sure that they’ve left no traces on themselves or the bathroom he unlocks the door. By the time Constance has an utterly exhausted d’Artagnan back in bed Aramis’ alarm goes off, startling them. There is nothing left to be said between them tonight, the rest will have to wait for morning d’Artagnan thinks, disappointed. Aramis is muttering under his breath, something about missing trousers and Constance snorts out a laugh and pulls the duvet up to d’Artagnan’s chest.

“Time for some sleep, Madame,” Aramis says with a loud yawn, now fully dressed. “I’ll keep an eye on your lad, I promise,” he tells her, taking her seat by d’Artagnan’s bed. 

Impulsively, d’Artagnan startles her by pulling her down for a kiss before she goes and Aramis laughs. “So now that the cat is out of the bag can we expect blatant PDA and lots of naughty innuendos flying around?”

Constance hands him her phone. “Play Candy Crush, I need to sleep,” she tells him with mock seriousness and then goes over to the sofa bed. “Thanks for warming the blankets, mate,” she says cheekily and turns on her side.

D’Artagnan thinks he should be outraged that she’s sleeping in the bed that Aramis has just vacated but a flood of memories reminds him of the numerous times that they’d had to improvise amongst themselves over the past 4 years as a team and his jealousy melts away, replaced by an intense feeling of loyalty and a deep affection for their friends. Tonight, he thinks, he’ll be thankful for that and worry about everything else tomorrow, 

 

*******************************************

 

“Antonia Marks and James Bennet are dead.”

It’s 9:15 and room service has just delivered a huge breakfast courtesy of Her Majesty’s Government and the minute the door shuts behind the waiters Athos makes that statement in a flat voice, his face stony.

“The girl and her boyfriend? How the ‘ell?” Porthos asks, stunned, as everyone else is.

Aramis sighs and starts pouring coffee; it’s pretty obvious they will be needing plenty of it, d’Artagnan thinks as he throws aside the towel he’s been using to dry his shaggy wet hair, and he curses. “Bloody fucking bollocks, do you know what this means? If they did have a failsafe, Constance and I are utterly screwed!”

“Yes, that’s a possibility,” Athos says grimly. “It’s also possible that we could be accused of, or at least suspected of murder if foul play is proved. We did, after all, have motive.”

Constance remains silent, her expression unreadable and d’Artagnan squeezes her arm. They are all sitting around the table that Treville had hauled up with the breakfast and once again their boss has shown his appreciation for his team by making sure they have all the creature comforts while stuck in a difficult situation. Constance acknowledges her lover’s gesture with a quick look but remains stoic.

Aramis sips his steaming black coffee. “How?”

“The car they were travelling in was run off the road by a lorry last night around midnight, hit and run,” Athos explains, “the only witnesses an elderly couple who barely got a glimpse.”

“We were all ‘ere, sleeping,” Porthos says “but with only each other as alibis.”

“Besides, we would have to be mad to kill them when Antonia specifically told me she had a failsafe that would expose us, it’s all recorded, our entire exchange, innit?” D’Artagnan reasons. 

Athos nods in agreement. “Yes, but it still crossed Treville’s mind, and I’m sure Rochefort will suggest it. Treville however, says that the Minister is…well, apparently he is ‘quite fond’ of us – Treville’s exact words – though I can’t say why he’d single us out,” Athos says thoughtfully.

Aramis snorts out a laugh “It’s because we’re efficient, brother, and discreet; remember that cock up his cousin’s daughter got herself into? Weapons trafficking? We shut them down but kept her part in it quiet, I’m guessing that made him ‘quite fond’ of us.”

Athos nods. “Possibly, anything as long as it keeps Rochefort from whispering in his ear and filling his head with nonsense. There is no doubt in my mind that whoever threatened and fired Antonia is also responsible for her accident, and I think we all agree that Rochefort is our main suspect. With her gone he’s scot free, even with the recordings from her conversation with d’Artagnan, he can simply accuse her of being a vindictive liar since he fired her. But there is still the failsafe to worry about, as well as what Rochefort might be doing with d’Artagnan’s and Constance’s personnel files.”

Porthos picks at the food on his plate and pushes it away. “Until we know for sure we need to go underground, to keep the kiddies safe.”

“I’m close to 30 you know,” Constance says, indignant, “but you are probably right, we have no idea what’s to come.”

“Treville said he was watching the girl,” d’Artagnan says quietly, almost to himself. Her death was senseless and it brings him no satisfaction.

“Yes, but with limited resources. Her car was in the drive, and no one saw them exit the house. They must have gone out the back and through the rear gardens, the car they were driving was a rental, it must have been parked somewhere further down. Treville has no idea where they were going, there’s nothing on surveillance audio to indicate they ever left the house last night or had plans to.” Athos explains, clearly frustrated as well with the turn of events. Two young people are dead for nothing. 

Athos glances at his watch. “You have 27 minutes to finish eating and dressing, Serge is on his way with the doctor to check d’Artagnan and then it’s off to wherever Treville tells us.”

D’Artagnan wanders around the room looking for his trainers, his brain trying to compartmentalise everything that is happening. It’s all gone balls up and despite the fact that she’d poisoned him d’Artagnan feels truly awful that Antonia is dead. His regret proves that he hasn’t lost all his humanity yet. Maybe Constance was right, maybe this whole mess is actually an opportunity for them to put this part of their lives behind them. He genuinely fears the day when this life will strip them of the ability to feel even the slightest remorse over the death of another human being.

Serge brings a Medic, and a pile of large black rucksacks are carried in by Wilton and Spears. D’Artagnan gets a rudimentary check over by the Medic and two vials of blood are drawn. The rucksacks, Porthos and Constance discover, are their own bags, the emergency ones packed and ready in the storehouse at the pub back in Guildford, which is a relief since d’Artagnan had planned to go commando due to a lack of clean clothes. When they are dressed in their own clothes, weapons are checked and hidden under their jackets. The borrowed clothes are stuffed into a bin bag and returned to Serge.

When they’re ready to leave they’re ushered into the service lift and out to the loading area where the silver Mercedes van with the taxi logo is waiting for them. On the floor inside is Aramis’ sniper rifle as well as two more bulky bags filled with weapons and tech equipment and laptops. Treville must really be expecting more problems than he’s let on, D’Artagnan thinks grimly, taking the same seat next to Athos he’d sat in 3 days prior. No reason to antagonise the older man further by cuddling up to Constance in the back row.

Wilton and Spears follow them in a black suv with their rucksacks and more equipment and they are on the motorway heading north out of London. D’Artagnan is feeling considerable stronger but still tired and he dozes off, coming abruptly awake when the van stops and they leave the suv and the van, replacing them with two other vehicles. This happens twice more over the next 4 hours and the team wordlessly carry their kit from van to jeep to minibus until finally arriving just an hour out of London again, apparently having travelled in circles, ‘protocol’ Serge had told them, and they reach their final destination sometime in the early afternoon, a small village in Kent inhabited mostly by elderly residents and trendy weekend renters looking for an authentic village getaway that is still close enough to London to be at work on Monday morning. 

Exhausted and disgruntled, the group decamps to what appears on the outside to be a partially neglected farmhouse that they assume belongs to the Agency. Inside though it’s been updated with all the necessary features and it’s actually quite cozy since most of the originally fixtures and fittings remain. There are 3 bedrooms so Constance takes one, Porthos and Aramis the other and the last room, which is on the ground floor off the living area goes to Athos and d’Artagnan, the latter sure it’s a strategic move on Athos’ part to keep him away from Constance and under his watchful eye. 

The kitchen is well stocked; the pantry is overflowing with rice, beans, pastas and sauces as well as various tins but the fridge is also stocked with fresh food. There is a Range Rover in the barn for their use and internet as well as satellite access all over the house, in the barn and within a 50 meter range around the dwelling. There is also a storm cellar under the floor in the kitchen, hidden under a huge old armoire that is filled with linens, in the event that they would have no choice but to hide. As Athos goes over the layout, pointing out all these features d’Artagnan is sure that the older man has been here before, sometime in the past before they worked together, maybe when he was working directly for Treville. He’s glad that Athos seems to know the place well, that will make it all the easier to defend if it comes to it.

Athos gets busy setting up a secure satellite link with Treville and they all settle around the scarred farmhouse table to be briefed. 

Treville looks exhausted and harried, his tie gone and his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He’s with his private secretary, a young man they know only as Lemay and they both look less than pleased.

“No one knows where you are apart from myself, Serge, Wilton and Spears.”

“Isn’t that a few too many?” Aramis asks, and there is no hiding the sarcasm in his tone.

“You can trust them as much as you trust me, but not more than you trust each other,” Treville answers pointedly.  
“Rochefort?” Athos asks.

“No, but not for lack of trying. This morning when Lemay and I met with the Minister that maggot was there of course. He was inquiring after d’Artagnan’s health, said he hoped he was recuperating somewhere relaxing, fishing around for your whereabouts. Don’t worry, the farmhouse isn’t even on his radar, Serge and I set it up personally years ago and along with Wilton and Spears we maintain it ourselves. Even Lemay doesn’t know,” he says, indicating he man beside him. 

”I still can’t believe that wanker continues to be in public service” Porthos says angrily, referring to Rochefort. 

“Influence, money, friends in high and low places,” Aramis mutters.

“Focus, people,” Treville admonishes. “The key to proving our theory is the electronic surveillance; everything leading up to Antonia’s dismissal. Everything she told d’Artagnan was recorded by his mic; if we present the video and those recordings to the Minister we will have at least half a chance of him listening to us. Unfortunately I haven’t seen it yet. As I told you all last night I requested it under the pretence of trying to find out more about the whole blackmail scheme and the files were pulled and secured and sent to the vault to ensure that they won’t be tampered with. Apparently a Prosecutor for the Crown must be present to view the video and I’m trying to arrange it. The Minister also wanted to know if I thought that Antonia and her boyfriend met with foul play. Fortunately he did not accuse Team 3 but he speculated the possibility that she might have been blackmailing other agents aside from d’Artagnan and Constance or possibly other Whitehall coworkers, anyone who might have wanted her dead. When I say Rochefort looked like he was having a seizure I mean that literally. There’s no doubt in my mind that Rochefort is the traitor.”

“Sir, any indication that the supposed failsafe has been set into play?” Athos asks, concerned.

“Thankfully, no, that hasn’t happened as of yet and although I’m relieved, I have no idea why. I have someone I trust implicitly monitoring the situation, she’ll let me know if anything happens.”

“Has anyone spoken to the girl’s father? I know she poisoned me but the MoD let her down,” D’Artagnan says. “What happened to her was unfair, when this is over we need to clear her name, for her father’s sake.”

“Yes, lad, I agree. The house is still being watched and Mr. Marks is a pensioner, doesn’t go out much, which makes it easier to keep him safe. I’m going to try and meet with him personally, he may know something about the failsafe or Rochefort or he could end up being a target himself if his daughter was murdered. God only knows what I’ll say to the man.”

“About this failsafe; the realm of possibilities is endless really,” Athos says thoughtfully. “It could be the father, or a friend or a neighbour who was supposed to set it into motion, maybe this person thinks she was truly killed in an accident and that there was no foul play so why do it? It could be a computer program, something that has a protocol, say, no one logs in for a certain amount of time, the files are leaked online, it seems impossible that we will be able to pinpoint what it is. What we need to have is a contingency plan, something that will destroy any information that is leaked the moment it’s leaked…Constance, can it be done?”

Constance frowns. “Technically it can be done, a program with a virus triggered by key words, facial recognition and so forth, but it would take time and we’d have to hack into some of the most heavily guarded servers on the planet to do so…” she says sceptically.

“And asking politely for access isn’t an option?” Aramis asks.

“Out of the question, it can’t happen,” Lemay says, “the amount of negotiations necessary to achieve something like that would be monumental. It has to be covertly and remotely done if this is the path we’re taking. While you’re at it, set the program and the virus to include the 5 of you, we have no idea where this whole mess will lead.”

“Go talk to the father, sir, and in the meanwhile we will see if our resident geniuses can come up with something that might be viable,” Athos decides. They end the call with Treville after setting a time for their next update and Aramis starts talking about food with Athos, who agrees to help. D’Artagnan already has a notepad in front of him and he’s frantically scribbling something for Constance and Porthos to see, his brain in overdrive and he is trying to incorporate what Constance has said with his own thoughts and for one second his senses short circuit and he gasps, falling sideways and hitting the slate floor before anyone can make a move to catch him.

“Haven’t eaten,” he mutters to the four concerned faces hovering over him. Constance has his head on her lap and Aramis is making him drink something that tastes foul. 

“It’s just Glucose gel and water, swallow it, lad,” Aramis urges and d’Artagnan does so dutifully. He’s embarrassed and frustrated that his body is betraying him when he needs to be in top form. 

“I’m alright,” he grumbles and reaches out one hand to Porthos to pull him up. 

“No! Wait for the glucose to kick in,” Aramis insists, kneeling next to him and taking his pulse.

“Will I live, doc?” d’Artagnan asks jokingly.

“Unfortunately,” he replies with a grin. “Alright, now you can get up.”

Constance is stroking his face gently and d’Artagnan no longer feels the desire to get to his feet. He closes his eyes for the briefest moment and lets himself pretend that the last few days had never happened and that they are back home in their shared bedroom, in their tiny house, watching a film or maybe just dozing lazily after a long day.

“Up, child, you have to eat,” Athos says, one brow raised slightly, and although there is no real heat in his words d’Artagnan is in no mood to provoke him. He lets Porthos help him to his feet and Constance unabashedly fusses over him, checking to see if he’s hit his head or done any other damage when he hit the slate floor. Thankfully her examination turns up nothing more than a small bruise forming on his cheek. That, along with the one that Aramis had landed on his jaw days earlier gave him the look of a boxer, he thinks with a grimace, inspecting his face with his selfie camera. The scar on his cheek just completes the look. 

“Oi, I never took you for a vain bloke,” Porthos says with laugh, taking the phone from his hand. “Now show us what you were working on before you took a swan dive.”

D’Artagnan searches the table for his note pad and pushes it across the table to him. “I think there might be a way to do this by accessing only one major server.”

“And which server might that be?” Athos asks, filling a pot with water and setting it to boil. “Anything you do, please don’t say the White House or some other equally ridiculous place.”

D’Artagnan grins. “Nope, nothing like that.”

“Well then whose server, child? Spit it out!”

“Our own,” he says gleefully, mentally patting himself on the back.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know nothing about computers, hacking, servers, programming, viruses, so please just take it all with a grain of salt, yeah?? :)

For the first time in days d’Artagnan is feeling himself again, well _almost_ himself, since he did face plant in the kitchen just a few hours earlier. But after a decent meal and a handful of tablets that the medic had left him there are no more aches and pains and the vertigo hasn’t returned. Physical weakness is something completely foreign to him. Although he was originally recruited for his computer skills his SAS training and weapons expertise make him as valuable in the field as he is in front of a computer, if not more. Falling out chairs is not something that he is used to. And neither is a sluggish brain so he is feeling exceptionally confident now that he has put forward something that both Constance and Porthos think can actually work. There are some bugs to be ironed out and then there’s the fact that hacking into the Ministry of Defence’s server won’t be easy after a major security breach, but d’Artagnan doesn’t see any of this as an obstacle. If the three of them can create the program and the virus, well a little virtual breaking and entry never stopped them before right?

He’s in his shared room with Athos, his laptop sitting in his knees when the older man enters and sits in the other bed. 

“Treville rang, he’s seen the father. He went there on the premise of offering apologies and condolences on behalf of the MoD. The father was not pleased to see him but they did speak briefly and Treville is certain that he knows nothing about the blackmail, the failsafe nor does he find the accident suspicious. He kept going on about the roads being slippery, that he warned them not to go out that late in bad weather and whatnot, said they were vague about where they were going, that they were driving a rental because Antonia’s car was having mechanical problems, which was probably a pretence for having a vehicle that she’d hope wouldn’t be monitored, but the father seemed oblivious to any of that,” Athos explained. “The man was devastated and Treville was truly shaken.”

D’Artagnan nods. “If I were him I would’ve never even let Treville in the door, we’re lucky he managed to talk to him.”

“Indeed. In any case, although Treville thinks the father is completely in the dark, he still has the house and his phone lines under surveillance for the moment but so far no information has come forth to implicate him in the scheme,” Athos tells him, rummaging through his bag for something to sleep in. “You need to get some rest, Porthos is up but you’ll switch with him in a few hours.”

D’Artagnan shuts his laptop and puts it on the floor beside his bed. It’s a single and just barely long enough for his 6’1” frame but he’s slept in far worse places so it never even crossed his mind to complain. He’s trying to get comfortable when he notices Athos staring at him.

“Something wrong?” he asks.

Athos sighs and settles into the bed next to him. “No…I, well it’s just sometimes you remind me of someone…” he replies softly. The older man shuts the lamp on the bedside table between them and rolls onto his back.

D’Artagnan would desperately like to know who; he suspects that Athos means his younger brother but he is afraid to push. He goes for humour instead.

“So you know another bow-legged bloke with long hair and a nasty scar on his face?”

Athos lets out a ghost of a chuckle. “No, but I did know another boy with a penchant for getting himself into trouble no matter how hard he tried not to.”

D’Artagnan snorts. “That doesn’t sound like me.”

“Doesn’t it, child? You are by far one of the best soldiers and agents I have ever worked him, but my God you get yourself into more scrapes than is natural, even for our business.”

“Do I, now…”

“Yes you do. You’re the first in the fight but you’re also the first one to break the rules. Some of that is on me; I let you get away with it and I should have reigned you in years ago…but this thing with Constance, child, it’s a problem of monumental proportions. I don’t know how we’re going to fix this.”

D’Artagnan feels like all the breath has been knocked out of him. “Why not?” he asks but it comes out more like a garbled croak.

Athos sits up and looks right at him. Even the shadows, d’Artagnan can see the incredulous expression on his face. 

“And that question is your problem in a nutshell! If you can’t see why I cannot have you both on this team as a couple you are far more reckless than I had ever imagined. I should have asked you straight out when I first suspected and I didn’t, which is my failure and I will face my own reckoning with Treville for that. For the moment though, I need you to focus on keeping yourselves and the rest of us alive. If you love her as much as you appear to, creating the program should be your first priority.”

“I do love her,” d’Aragnan says fiercely, and he feels the flood gates open inside of him. “I didn’t set out to but it was literally instantaneous, from the first moment I saw her.”

Athos lets out a long and frustrated breath. “Yes, I know something of that,” he grumbles, falling back into his bed.  
“So you understand…” d’Artagnan begins but Athos cuts him off.

“Yes, I probably do, and I know the consequences as well,” he says and d’Atagnan can hear the misery in his voice. 

“Look, just because you can’t work together doesn’t mean that you can’t be together. This isn’t a Shakespearean drama, child, I’m not forbidding your relationship, I am forbidding you from working together,” the older man reasons.

“I hate it when you call me _child_.”

Athos barks out a laugh. “No you don’t, you love it. Because you know damn well that it’s said with all the fondness one can have for someone they care deeply about. I care for you and I care for Constance, like I care for Aramis and Porthos. This whole team is closer to my heart than anything else in this world, you’re all I have left, can’t you understand why I want what’s best for all of us?”

The emotion in the older man’s voice jolts d’Artagnan. He has seen him concerned and worried for their safety many times but this confession is jarring and honest. It makes his eyes water and he quickly swipes at them so Athos won’t see.

“We have two massive problems at the moment, lad, Rochefort who would like nothing more than to see us disbanded or even dead and this supposed failsafe that might get you killed first. I am expecting you to put aside your feelings for Constance for the moment and focus on the matter at hand. When this is over, we will find a way to keep you both employed…just not working together. Agreed?”

“Yes,” d’Artagnan replies quietly and he lets out a yawn. His exhaustion is taking its toll, he can barely keeps his eyes open. “Thank you,” he adds, turning on his side to get comfortable. His lids are drooping when he hears Athos sigh loudly and say “Don’t thank me yet.”

No matter what that might mean, d’Artagnan is too tired to worry. He’s asleep almost instantly.

 

************************************************

 

At six am Porthos enters the room silently and wakes him to switch. D’Artagnan takes a 2 minute shower in the tiny downstairs bathroom and dresses quietly, trying not to disturb Athos who needs his rest as much as, if not more than the rest of them. He goes into the kitchen and makes himself coffee in the French press and grimaces at the thought of food as he examines the contents of the fridge and the bread box. He opts for a chocolate protein bar instead and sets up his laptop, his weapon conspicuously on the table beside him, reminding him that at all times he must be aware of what is happening in and around the house in case he gets caught up in his work.

Quarter of an hour later Constance arrives in the kitchen with her laptop in tow and her damp hair pulled back into a braid that falls down her back and is wetting the top of her hoodie.

“Did you sleep well?” she asks him and plants a gentle kiss on the bruise on his cheek. 

“Actually yes,” he replies, fighting the urge to pull her down onto his lap for a proper snog. “I’m making a few changes, I’ll send them to you and Porthos as soon as I’m done and you can tell me what you think.”

She sits down across from him with a mug of steaming tea and some toast. “I’m not worried about the program, I’m more worried about getting into the server. It won’t be easy after the security breach. It might be easier if we can access the server room, physically, and work from in there. But again, we don’t have clearance and it’s guarded like the palace.”

“Indeed,” he replies, considering her words. “But if it comes to it Porthos can figure that out, I’m sure he’ll be able to get me in.”

Constance’s face goes stony. “Get you in? Why you and not me? You’re barely fit to make coffee, let alone break into a government facility.”

D’Artagnan is in no mood to argue so he tries reason. “Constance, it’s my program and my virus, if anything goes wrong I’ll have to make adjustments… it has to be me.”

“Yes, I forgot, it always _has_ to be you, the rest of us are barely capable of taking a shit on our own, it’s a good thing we have you to wipe our arses,” she tells him with barely controlled fury.

“It’s not like that and you know it!” he whispers angrily, trying to keep him voice down since Athos is just across the living room and still sleeping. “This is about being practical and logical and not about who is more capable!”

“Yes, and who is more capable than our lad here?” Aramis asks, entering the kitchen a rumpled mess, hair askew and still in his bedclothes. “What are we discussing, anyway,” he asks with a loud yawn, plopping himself down next to Constance. 

“Tea?” she asks Aramis, ignoring his question. 

“Ahh, so we are discussing d’Artagnan’s tea-making abilities,” Aramis replies. You can always count on Aramis to deflect with humour d’Artagnan thinks, very grateful for the distraction.

“Yeah, I’m told I make a mean cuppa,” d’Artagnan says flatly and is rewarded with a glower from Constance, who gets up and warms the water in the kettle again for Aramis. D’Artagnan rises and slides his weapon into his shoulder holster and grabs a parka from the neat row of identical black jackets hanging near the door that leads out into the back garden. 

“Where are you going?” Aramis asks.

“Perimeter check, just to make sure all is as it should be,” he answers. D’Artagnan slides into the jacket, not bothering to zip it up, something he regrets when the cold March morning air hits him. But he wants access to his weapon so he leaves it open and does a through walk-around of the house, the garden and then the barn. The doors are locked so he can’t check inside but through the windows he can see the Range Rover and nothing appears out of place and there is nothing around the dwelling to indicate that anyone had been there aside from them. 

In the distance, though, d’Aragnan sees a flash of light. Around 500 meters or so west he reckons, and he takes his weapon out of his holster and starts moving forward cautiously. The house in on the edge of the village, around them there are only fields and there seems to be no one out and about anywhere close by, no tractors or farm equipment that he can see that would reflect sunlight. D’Artagnan continues forward, through the copse of trees that line the drive, gravel crunching under his feet as he moves cautiously from the drive into the soggy, wet field beside it. When he reaches where the spot he thinks he’d seen the flash, he quickly looks for any clues on and around the ground and in between the few pine trees that line the perimeter of the even square of carefully tended field. He can tell something’s been planted, indicating that the field is tended by someone but there’s no sign of a farmer or anyone else for that matter. The only thing he can think of aside from the possibility that it had been his imagination was a drone. D’Artagnan takes out his phone and texts Aramis, who appears two minutes later still sleep mussed but his expression is perfectly professional and he has an automatic weapon slung over his shoulder.

“I’ve found nothing, but I’m pretty sure I saw something, a flash of light on metal, possibly glass,” d’Artagnan explains as the two of them look around together. “Drone maybe?”

Aramis nods. “Could have been, doesn’t mean it was purposely targeting us, might have been some farmer checking his crops or a teenager playing around, but we’ll have a look on the surveillance cameras and see if we can find anything,” Aramis tells him, concerned but seemingly not as worried as d’Artagnan. “I hate those bloody things, I can’t believe it’s legal for just anyone to own one,” the medic gripes. “Invasion of privacy, potential threat to national security…and they will soon be delivering my pizza _cold_ ,” he complains and d’Artagnan can’t help the snort of laughter. “Don’t worry lad, if Treville says no one knows we’re here, no one knows,” the older man assures him.

D’Artagnan nods. “I know, I just worry about…”

Aramis cuts him off. “Yes, yes, we know,” he says theatrically. “You worry about Constance. I am patiently waiting for the day that our girl beats you to a bloody pulp over that, and with the way you’ve been behaving, I’d say that’s not far off! Now come on, I’m freezing my bollocks off and that simply won’t do.”

Back in the kitchen they finds Athos has joined them as well. It’s past seven and at ten sharp Treville is expected to contact them with updates after his nine am meeting at Whitehall. In the meanwhile, Aramis goes through the security footage from around the farmhouse but there is nothing to see since the area with the pine trees it too far away to be caught on their cameras but d’Artagnan insists on having a look himself even though he knows Aramis has been thorough. Indeed, there is no way to see anything in that area but they all decide that perimeter checks must be carried out hourly.

When 10:30 rolls around and there is no contact from Treville, Athos tells his uneasy colleagues that there is nothing to worry about or anything to be done about it; they need to continue with their plans and simply be patient until Treville calls. 

At lunch, the jittery group discusses the changes and additions that d’Artagnan has made to his program and Porthos explains the workings of the device they would need to unlock the door to the server and block the cctv if they can’t manage to do it remotely. He’s done it before, multiple times, and he is sure he can make it work for the MoD security system as well. No one questions his abilities; Porthos is probably one of 10 people in the world with his skill set, so very little time is wasted on the discussion. D’Artagnan though, has made numerous changes that neither Constance nor Porthos have had a chance to see so d’Artagnan explains to everyone what he has done.

“Basically, the program contains an algorithm that will release a virus that wipes any personal information leaked about the five of us on the internet. It works like the anti-terror programs that are based on key words and facial recognition but it’s tailored to us because the person responsible for the alleged failsafe could have even used terms like ‘red headed agent’ or ‘scarred right cheek’ and so forth to try and avoid a standard key-word based program. Constance and I have done this before so I know it can work, I’ve simply taken it one step further…I just hope we’ve covered all the possibilities. To our advantage, Antonia Marks was good, but not nearly as skilled as she might have hoped since she’d been caught hacking so I don’t expect that any failsafe she might have created would be beyond what the three of us have come up with.”

“And how will this program be launched? You originally said you’d need to hack into multiple servers,” Aramis asks, one eyebrow raised doubtfully.

“One of the MoD servers will do the hacking for us, the equipment at Whitehall is much more sophisticated that anything available to us here at the farmhouse and with so little time to get this done that is the easiest way. It well convey the program to other major servers all over the world since the servers at Whitehall do have the capability of breaking into others and sharing information. Theoretically that is, we’ve never had to do that before,” Constance explains, biting her lip nervously.

D’Artagnan agrees. “Yes, we’ve never done that before but all three of us,” he says, gesturing to Porthos and Constance, “agree that it will work.”

“And if it doesn’t?” Athos queries.

“Well if it doesn’t and we are exposed by a failsafe Constance and I will have to go underground for a while,” he adds with a grimace. “But truly, I am confident that it will work.”

Athos nods slowly and there’s a pause before he speaks again. “In theory it all sounds feasible...”

Porthos laughs. “But you know sod all about any of this, yeah?”

“Precisely. We need to be sure there is nothing in this program that can come back to us or even any kind of digital signature or style, d’Artagnan,” Athos tells him firmly. “There can be no mistakes or it’s prison for the lot of us. Treville was adamant; he said no one is to know how we did this, there is no way we would have been granted permission so I doubt the Minister would be happy to hear that we used MoD servers to hack other servers, no matter how ‘fond’ of us he might be.”

D’Artagnan nods, the ever-present knot in his stomach tightening. “Understood.”

“I’m meeting with Treville in about two hours. He’s messaged me that he needs to speak face to face as a precaution. The rest of you will continue to work on the program. This failsafe is a time-bomb, only we can’t see the timer, so we need to move with all urgency.” Athos turns to d’Artagnan. “Understood, child?”

“Understood,” d’Artagnan replies firmly. He doesn’t need anyone to remind him of what’s at stake, not when she’s sitting right beside him. 

 

*************************************************

 

After lunch Serge arrives and takes Athos to his face to face with Treville. Aramis and Porthos take the keys to the garage with the intention of giving the Range Rover a full mechanical check as well as store a few spare weapons with ammunition and an emergency medical kit in the boot. D’Artagnan, who’s been for a short run around the property jumps in the shower in the second floor bathroom because the stall downstairs barely fits even his lanky frame. He comes out of the steamy bathroom dressed only in a pair of jeans and a towel on his shoulders and he sees Constance through the doorway of her bedroom, chewing on a pen and concentrating intently on something she is reading on her laptop.

D’Artagnan knows that it’s quite possibly the stupidest thing he could do but he goes into her room, locks the door behind him and leans on it, damp hair still dripping onto the towel and down his bare chest, his face flushed from the steam of the shower and from the rush of desire he feels at the sight of her in a pair of leggings and a snug tee shirt; she’s never needed to seduce him with sexy lingerie or bawdy suggestions, her simplicity and her unembellished beauty are plenty to give him a raging hard on, often at the most inappropriate of times. 

She looks up at him, surprised and it seems as if she is going to berate him or possibly have a go at him over their earlier discussion. Instead, she carefully closes and places the laptop on the bedside table and tosses the pen aside. D’Artagnan closes the gap between them in three strides and pulls her to the end up the bed so she’s on her knees, flush against him and the minute they make contact he lets out a harsh groan that he thinks can probably be heard in the kitchen but he doesn’t care. They’re kissing like it’s been weeks instead of a day and his hands are under her shirt, deftly undoing her bra, rough-tipped fingers circling and teasing her nipples until she’s gasping into his mouth. He pulls her t-shirt and her bra off and leans down to suck hard at one rosy nipple, his fingers continuing to tease the other relentlessly and he switches back and forth, licking and sucking and biting until Constance grabs his hands to make him stop. Confused, breath coming in short gasps he waits as she slides off the bed and then pushes him to sit down in front of her, stepping in between his legs. She leans downs to kiss him again, her fingers now doing the exploring, lightly scratching and thumbing his overly sensitive nipples, her hands making their way down to his half-opened jeans. She tugs at them and D’Artagnan helps her ease them down along with his boxers so that she now has access to his cock and she drops down onto her knees, once hand sliding under his balls, the other grabbing the base of his cock.

 _Holy bleeding fuck_ …he almost comes. Constance has a sly smile on her face and her tongue dips out to lick a stripe on the underside of his overly-stimulated cock from root to tip, her tongue catching a tiny bead of precome and d’Artagnan gasps.

“Slow down,” he croaks but instead she takes as much of his length as she can into her mouth, pulling back and then taking him in deeper, repeating this teasing motion twice more before he has to stop her. In two awkward manoeuvres he has her leggings and knickers off and Constance on her back on the bed and his cock is buried inside her, his hands coaxing her knees up and back so that he can fuck her even deeper. 

They are both breathing harshly in the silent room but keeping quiet is almost ingrained in them after 5 years of hiding so not a sound escapes their throats. D’Artagnan leans forward to kiss her, tasting himself on her tongue and damn if he doesn’t find that the hottest thing. He slips one hand between them to touch her clit, keeping up the steady rhythm until Constance comes hard. D’Artagnan is in agony but he knows he can coax another orgasm out of her so he doesn’t let up, his hand rubbing circles into her clit until he feels her second orgasm squeeze his cock almost painfully. A few more strokes and he’s coming as well, spilling inside of her, his body jerking awkwardly with the aftershocks. 

He falls forward onto her, holding her close as their breathing slows until she gently pushes him off her and reaches for the tissues beside her bed. 

“We need to clean up, someone might come up looking for us,” she tells him, regretfully.

D’Artagnan smiles at her mischievously. “I doubt it, Porthos and Aramis are not Athos, I think they’re cheering for us.”  
“Yes well, regardless I prefer that no one finds us half-dressed and covered in spunk.”

D’Artagnan leans over to kiss her. “Agreed. Bollocks, it’s late,” he says, glancing at his watch, “I need to work, I’ve done some changes and they’re still not ironed out,” he tells her, cleaning himself off with a wad of Kleenex as best as he can until he can get back into the bathroom.

She passes him the bin and they bury the evidence under half a box of clean tissues, D’Artagnan commenting cheekily that it reminds him of their last fumble at her Mum’s. 

Constance giggles and D’Artagnan realises it’s been days since she’s been this relaxed. He thinks he can physically feel her laying claim to that minuscule bit of his heart that hadn’t already belonged to her. “I love you,” he tells her simply. “Things will go wonky now and again but you have to know that fact will never change.”

Constance nods and moved towards him, her hand tracing another shrapnel scar on his arm. “I know, I love you too, although sometimes I think I’m mad to,” she tells him with something between a grimace and a smile. “Off you go,” she says finally, the mood lifting when she presses a noisy kiss on the small tattoo on his right pec. It’s one half of a matching pair, she has the same one on her hip, it’s a short sword and a duelling pistol crossing over each other, an inside joke stemming from their Musketeer pseudonyms. Everyone’s seen his, but no one else knows she has one as well. 

They part quickly, D’Artagnan hurrying down the stairs shirtless to the small bathroom off his bedroom and he’s opening the light just as Athos unlocks the front door. The older man look grim and he shuts the door, locking it behind him.

“D’Artagnan, get dressed and find the others, we need to talk.”

 

***********************************************

 

“Treville is sure that Rochefort has somehow been monitoring us. He doesn’t have any actual evidence but he said something odd in their meeting this morning and Treville thinks it was either a slip or possibly even deliberate to spook us, maybe provoke us. It was something Porthos said, back at the hotel,” Athos explains. “Treville found it disconcerting that Rochefort asked if he’d been successful in keeping ‘the kiddies safe’ because it was extremely out of character for him to refer to Constance and d’Artagnan in that way, especially since he barely knows them. Treville asked me if there had been any banter of that sort and I remembered what Porthos had said at the hotel during breakfast yesterday morning.” 

The group was standing outside of the barn, bundled in their coats and mostly freezing as they listen to Athos with trepidation. D’Artagnan is very glad they are nowhere near Rochefort at the moment because he isn’t sure he would have been able to fight to urge to simply confront him and maybe shoot the bastard once and for all.

“I’ll sweep the house again, but I’m almost 100% sure there is nothing planted ‘ere. Back at the hotel, I checked the suite as soon as we got there, but not the room service cart or the table they brought the next day, what with everything that was happening…,” Porthos says, “I can’t believe we were so stupid and so fuckin’ sloppy.”

“It’s like you said, Porthos, there was so much going on, and none of us were focused,” Aramis tells him. “The most important thing now is to check the house, the barn and the jeep so we can continue planning without fear of being overheard.”

“How did Rochefort even know what hotel we were staying at? Treville specifically said he coordinates all of our logistics and expenses himself,” Constance wonders. 

“Fuckin’ ‘ell, drones!” Porthos says at once. “D’Artagnan, you said there might ‘ave been one ‘ere, this morning?”

“Yeah, it’s possible. With drones they can follow our moves even when we do everything right…and they need less manpower which means less risk for them,” d’Artagnan replies angrily.

“If Rochefort was listening he’ll know we suspect him of being the man threatening Antonia, we discussed it at the hotel,” she reminds them.

“That might not be such a bad thing,” d’Artagnan muses. “This might force his hand, he might get scared, do something to implicate himself.”

“Yes, maybe he’ll shoot us all and leave a note saying ‘I did it’,” Aramis says sarcastically, his teeth chattering from the cold.

“That would be effective,” d’Artagnan snarks, “But I’m being serious, I’m not much of a wait-and-see kind of bloke when I know someone it out to get us.”

Athos grimaces. “Child, you are never a wait-and-see kind of bloke, even when someone isn’t,” he says flatly. “One problem at a time, failsafe first. Treville wants this done yesterday. Have you finished the program?” he asks.

“Yes, just needs some fine tuning, it will be done by this evening. We’ll try to get into the system when it’s done, but if not, we’ll have to go to Whitehall, Athos, there’s no other way,” d’Artagnan tells him.

“Yes, and at Whitehall, or even anywhere out in the open we are all targets, since we’re still blindly feeling our way around in the dark,” Aramis says, frustrated.

“In the meanwhile, we must stay here, it’s the safest place for all of us, drones or no drones. Treville gave me this,” Athos says, pulling a small tablet from inside of his coat. “It locks the house down completely, Kevlar panels descend from above the windows and doors and the house becomes bullet proof, partially bomb-proof and no one goes in or out…unless you’re Porthos of course and can get past it. 

“Very James Bond,” Constance says, “And where do these mysterious panels materialise from?”

“The door and window frames, you can’t really see the mechanism unless you know it’s there. It’s not all that shocking, they work like any other kind of electric roller blinds, really, only they can withstand fire from an automatic weapon, probably a grenade, not quite sure about an RPG though.”

“Well then let’s hope Rochefort hasn’t been shopping with the Russian mafia,” Aramis adds. “Why is Treville just giving us this now?”

“Because it’s either locked in his home vault or on his person, it’s the only way he can keep it from being hacked, so he gave it to me today when we met. It was installed by some American defense contractor, I’ve only seen it in use once, a few years ago,” Athos explains patiently. “Now it’s freezing out here, if we’re done oohing and aahing over the new toy lets starts looking for listening devices, shall we?”

They decide to split into two groups, Athos goes with Constance and Porthos to the house and d’Artagnan and Aramis go to the barn. Aramis retrieves an ultra-sophisticated device that can detect microphones, video and any other kind of digital surveillance from the boot of the jeep and they set to work. 

“You never did tell us what exactly happened with you, Constance and Marcheaux,” Aramis tells him. The older man is manually searching the inside of the vehicle while d’Artagnan checks it electronically. 

“He put his hand on Constance’s ass and whispered disgusting things in her ear. We were all Agency recruits, fresh out of the military and a bunch of us were drinking to our freedom from combat boots before our MoD postings.”

“And?”

“And Constance bloodied his nose, and knocked him on his arse, it was glorious,” he says with a huge grin as he remembers his beautiful and oh-so-deadly Constance take down a man twice her size. 

Aramis laughs. “So then why did you get involved if our girl had already put him in his place?”

“He put his sleazy hands on what was mine,” d’Artagnan says somewhat defiantly, knowing Aramis will probably take the piss out of him for what he’d done.

Aramis gets out of the car and shakes his head, his shocked expression comical. “What was yours, brother? I’d say that Constance would dump you skinny arse if she ever heard you say something like that.”

D’Artagnan nods in agreement. “Probably, but I can’t ‘elp how I feel. She was mine the minute I set eyes on her, Aramis. If Treville had told me the day we’d met in his office, even before we’d said two words to each other, to take a bullet for her I would have done so, no questions asked.”

“Lad, that is probably the most frightening statement you’ve ever made in the four long-suffering years I’ve known you. I get the whole ‘soul-mates, star-crossed lovers’ thing the two of you have going on, I think it was an arc on East Enders last year, or maybe it was Coronation Street, I forget…”Aramis says blithely, “but that kind of relationship is not feasible in our game, it’s a bloody good thing that Athos finally knows.”

“I’ve never put any of you in danger because of my feelings for Constance, brother, my loyalty is to this entire team, and if you can actually point out one instance where my actions were questionable I’ll resign tonight,” d’Artagnan tells him carefully.

“You know that’s not what I meant!”

“Then what did you mean?”

Aramis lets out a dramatic sigh. “I mean you’re going to get yourself killed one day. Constance had it under control with Marcheaux, why did you have to be Lancelot when our Guinevere is such a bad ass?”

“Because Marcheaux is a special kind of wanker and he deserved it. If it’s any consolation, Constance was furious and withheld sex for nearly two weeks,” he admits sheepishly.

“Ugh, too much information, lad, I’m just getting my head around the fact that this has been going on for the past five years.”

Aramis’ phone beeps and he swipes the screen to read the message. “House is clear. Let’s finish up out here so you can sneak into Constance’s room later when Athos falls asleep.”

“How long is this ‘Constance and d’Artagnan got nicked’ theme going to continue?” he asks the older man, one brow raised.

Aramis lets out a hearty laugh. “Until it’s no longer funny, brother,” he tells D’Artagnan and he goes to start checking the shelves. 

D’Artagnan groans and follows, it’s going to be a long and awkward few days he acknowledges.

 

**********************************************************

 

With the house and barn swept for bugs, it’s all hands on deck to finish the program. Aramis and Athos cook and clean up while the others keep working at their laptops. It’s nearly eleven pm when d’Artagnan, Constance and Porthos declare the program and the virus finally ready. Hacking the MoD’s server won’t be easy but at least if they fail they are completely untraceable, since Constance herself was one of the three people who created the MoD’s software that tracks that sort of thing. She knows exactly how to cloak their movements just as d’Artagnan knows exactly how to get into one of the most impenetrable systems in the country, maybe even in the world. It’s all quite anti-climactic once they manage the hack; it took over two hours and innumerable tries but it wasn’t nearly as difficult as any of them had imagined. 

When it’s done and they run a few tests to make sure it works like it’s supposed to, Porthos breaks out the Henessy and Athos allows them one drink each. It’s nearly 2 am and they are all still riding on the high of mission accomplished when Aramis bursts their bubble.

“So much hard work and it might never be needed,” he says wryly, “since we still don’t know, nor might we ever know if there really was a failsafe or if that poor girl was so desperate to leave the country that she played her bluff.”

“Well someone in the MoD has the youngsters’ files,” Athos reminds him, “and if it is Rochefort and he chooses to leak them online, he won’t be able to do any damage. I’d say it’s a win all around.”

“Thanks for reminding us that someone in our own organization wants us dead or at least put in danger,” Constance says with a grimace and finishes off her drink. 

“You’re very welcome, my dear,” Athos tells her with a smirk. “Tomorrow morning at eleven Aramis and I will meet Treville at Whitehall to review the video with Louis and the Prosecutor. I’m sure Rochefort knows so I expect that he will do something very stupid between now and then if he is our mysterious interrogator. If it’s Marcheaux then Rochefort will probably throw him under the proverbial bus and accuse him of acting alone. Either way we need to be exceedingly careful between now and then. Porthos, you’re on baby-sitting duty, Aramis and I are leaving at eight am and we’re taking the jeep,” Athos tells them with a tired yawn.

“Yes, Porthos, don’t let the kiddies have too much sugar or play outside without their mittens,” Aramis adds and Constance throws an empty coke can at him. D’Artagnan laughs though, he knows Aramis’ digs are good-natured and without malice and he’s too tired to even pretend to be offended. He’s just very glad that what he’d seen as the hard part is over. The failsafe was an invisible enemy, Rochefort, Marcheaux and their lackeys are tangible and facing down a tangible foe is a lot easier, he thinks.

Of course, he couldn’t know at that moment that Athos and Aramis would never make it to Whitehall…nor could he have ever imagined what would happen next.

 

To be continued….

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not too much Porthos but he's a major player next chapter, I promise:) 
> 
> I struggled with myself a bit before posting this chapter for a few reasons. This story is mostly done, it just needed fine tuning so it shouldn't have been that hard to get it ready. But then I realised that I'd written 13,000 words (chapters 3&4) without much 'action', mostly Constagnan and plotty stuff, brotherly banter and I thought 'yeah, no one will like this'. But this is the story I wrote, for better or for worse and changing it or rushing to the climax without setting it up exactly as I wanted wouldn't have worked for me personally. So this is it, the 13,000 or so words of 'calm before the storm', hope you enjoyed at least Aramis taking the piss and d'Artagnan being a drama queen:) Thanks so much for reading!


	5. Chapter 5

The hardest part of any covert operation is the waiting. Well, at least for d’Artagnan it is. 

Athos and Aramis had left with the jeep around eight am as planned and warned them not to expect any communication until after noon and unless it was a dire emergency they should only text and not ring. When they’d left the farm house it had been with a stern warning that none of them venture outside, mittens or not, Aramis had added cheekily, since the situation was very volatile. Serge was to meet the pair of them at a rest stop on the motorway so they’d have an escort to Whitehall which was a huge comfort to d’Artagnan, who was seething that they were being left behind and not riding shotgun. In the meantime the three of them have hours to kill, locked in the house and decidedly anxious.

Constance keeps herself occupied by cooking, something she loves but rarely gets a chance to do, d’Artagnan thinks regretfully, while he and Porthos play poker, the older man teaching him how to cheat subtly and how to bluff when he can’t cheat. This endeavour is the cause for much hilarity since d’Artagnan is useless at it, the laughter and good-natured ribbing a huge respite from the tension. The day wanes with still no news from their brothers or Treville and even though Constance has sent numerous coded texts she hasn’t received any reply but they decide not to phone since Athos specifically told them not to. The three of them continue to worry but there’s not much to be done for it. Aramis and Athos are not green boys, they’re seasoned agents who’ve been in much more dangerous situations. There’s nothing out of the ordinary reported on the news or on any news sites on the internet so they have no choice but to sit tight.

Sometime around three d’Artagnan develops a migraine. It comes on suddenly and with a vengeance and for a moment everything goes black. Both Porthos and Constance fuss since he rarely has headaches, let alone migraines and they urge him to lie down since he's refusing to take anything for the pain. D’Artagnan knows his body, his weaknesses and his strengths and he acknowledges that he hasn’t felt like his old self since before being poisoned. Plagued not only by the headache but by boredom and worry as well, he agrees to lie down, just for a few minutes, he says. He quickly strips off his jeans, slides into his flannel pyjama bottoms and is out light a light the minute his head hits the pillow.

 

*******************************************************

 

“D’Artagnan.”

“hhmmnnn.”

“D’Artagnan, wake up!”

Porthos is standing over him in semi-darkness, one weapon in his hand and one strapped into his shoulder holster. D’Artagnan practically leaps from the bed. “Tell me,” he says, grabbing his own holster and automatically checking the clip on his Glock.

“Two jeeps, no plates, coming up the drive, I saw 8 heads before we locked down the ‘ouse,” Porthos tells him in a hissed whisper.

D’Artagnan finds his trainers and grabs his blue hoodie jacket but Porthos stops him when he goes to change into his jeans.

“No time, let’s move!” the older man says and d’Artagnan follows him to the kitchen in his flannel pyjama bottoms where they find Constance assembling extra weapons on the farmhouse table. 

“There’s no phone signal, the net and the satellite are gone, so are the outside cameras,” she tells d’Artagnan as she works, fitting clips into handguns while Porthos checks the automatic assault rifle, an M4 that he’d had personally requisitioned since he dislikes the SA80 that is standard UK military issue. There were only a few magazines for it though so d’Artagnan knows they’ll need to be sparing with its use.

D’Artganan shoves extra clips for his Glock in the pockets of his jacket and picks up a Beretta, loading it. “So we’re dealing with someone who has fancy equipment. Where’s Athos and Aramis, any news or still out of reach?” 

“Athos called, they never made it to Whitehall, something about an accident and an ambush but aside from cuts and bruises, he assured me that they are safe and fine. Border Control has Rochefort leaving for Spain last night but he wasn’t picked up in Madrid because there was no warrant, so he’s long gone. Meanwhile, the lorry driver that ran Antonia off the road was found by local police last night and named Marcheaux as the man who'd hired him,” she says, disgust apparent in her voice. “Marcheaux is missing so he’s our prime suspect for the attack on Athos and Aramis, and probably responsible for whoever’s outside. MI5 has all ports and borders on alert in case he tries to leave the country.”

“Fuckin ‘ell, what time is it? Why did you wait so long to wake me?” d’Artagnan asks, grabbing an energy drink for the fridge. His head is still spinning and painkillers are out of the question with their situation so dire.

“It’s half past five and all of this just literally happened in the last 15 minutes,” Constance says, tossing him a Kevlar vest. 

D’Artagnan catches it and slides it on over his t-shirt and hoodie jacket. “So the others don’t know we’ve been compromised.”

“No,” Constance says, frustrated. “We lost all comms right after Athos called so we have no way of letting them know. They said they’d be leaving London soon and heading down here with Treville and Serge, Athos told me to lock ourselves in until they arrived.”

“So what do you reckon, wait it out or engage?” d’Artagnan asks Porthos, picking up extra clips for the Beretta.

“I don’t know,” Porthos says, clearly torn. “We’ve got no idea exactly how many, what kinds of weapons, if they’re military or mercenaries or just hired thugs…” Porthos doesn’t finish his though because the lights begin to flicker and everything goes dark. Thirty seconds later the generator kicks in and most of the lights are back. 

“I think I have an idea. Can the security system control individual areas or is it the whole floor?” d’Artagnan asks, brain whirling. 

Constance hands him the tablet. “It does whatever you want. What are you thinking?”

“We’ve got two main walls with windows and doors; rear of the house and front of the house, nothing but two feet of stone on the other walls, which is in our favour, less vulnerable areas to defend.” D’Artagnan takes the tablet and scrolls through the options. “We need to flush them out, to see what they’re carrying, how many, yeah? So if we open one window, just a crack, and take fire we’ll be able to figure out most of that.”

Constance looks at him like he’s gone mad. “That’s your plan? Let them shoot at us?”

Porthos lets out a long breath. “Constance, ‘es right, we all know the sound of a weapon, can tell the difference between semi and automatic, how many are being fired, I think we should do it. Plus we’ll get off some shots of our own, possibly even the odds.”

“Porthos, you'll put the window up a few centimetres, just enough to fit the barrel of the M4, and Constance will roll up the shield just that much. Empty the magazine, you’re bound to hit something. Constance, you and I will basically be shooting blindly from beside the window so don’t fire more than 8 rounds, we’ll need the clips.”

“So it’s decided then? You don’t want to wait it out?” Constance asks worriedly.

“If we don’t do this luv, the others could be caught up it in the minute they come up the drive unawares, we’ve got no way to warn them,” Porthos reminds her. 

There’s an explosion and the entire house shakes, plaster raining down from the ceiling and the lights flicker again but stay on. The three of them look at each other, stunned. “Constance, hit the lights, we’re doing this before they bring the whole ‘ouse down on us!” Porthos hisses. Constance cuts the lights aside from one lamp from the main panel in the living room and they run towards one of the back windows. Constance crouches down on the left, d’Artagnan on the right and Porthos in front of d’Artagnan, the barrel of the M4 leaning on the window frame.

“The minute the shield goes up stay down and hold your fire until I say,” he whispers, “or else I’ll get my arse handed to me by Athos for cocking up on baby-sitting duty,” he adds, the tiniest hint of humour in his gruff hiss. 

Porthos pushes up the window the tiniest bit, just enough to fit their weapons and Constance follows suit with the shield. They take fire the second the shield goes up and Porthos empties half the magazine in a zig zag motion before hissing to them to fire as well. D’Artagnan and Constance fire 8 of the 17 rounds that the Glock clips hold and Porthos empties the rest of the M4 magazine before he signals to Constance to close the shield.

When the window is secured again, they lean back against the wall, shaken, adrenaline rushing, the floor around them littered with discarded shell casings. 

“AK47’s for sure, maybe two or three, I’m sure we hit at least two of ‘em, I ‘eard two loud yells,” Porthos says, breath coming short and fast.

“Three automatic weapons,” Constance confirms, “and yeah, I head at least two of them take a hit, can’t know how bad of course.”

“OK, front window,” d’Artagnan says and the hurry across the living room to the window beside the front door. 

“Rinse and repeat, a’right?” Porthos says, switching the spent magazine for a full one. 

They do everything the same, only they wait to take fire before spending even one round, and they are able to hear footsteps as well as their assailants move from the back of the house around to the front. D’Artagnan and Constance empty the rest of the Glock clips and Porthos another magazine. Constance lowers the shield and wipes away a drop of blood from her chin where she’d been cut by some sort of debris, maybe a shell casing from the M4 rounds, but she's otherwise unharmed.

“I’m sure we hit at least two hostiles this time, I heard grunts and thuds, and we took significantly less fire,” she says, reloading her weapon. “Sounded like 6 men from the sound of their footsteps, hopefully less now.”

The decide to do this again anther two times, from the remaining two front and back windows, until there are no more magazines for the M4 and they are taking fire from one automatic weapon and two handguns. “There is no way they’re military, too sloppy, exposing themselves too easily,” Porthos says, replacing the automatic assault weapon with two Glocks. 

They don’t get a chance to further discuss their options because d’Artagnan runs towards the stairs that lead to the second floor, sure that he smells smoke. He takes the steps two at a time and when he reaches the landing he realises, to his horror, that the roof in on fire. He runs back down the stairs, his face buried in his elbow so he doesn’t inhale any of the smoke.

“Roof’s one fire,” he says dully, panicking for the first time since the assault had begun. Fuck fuck fuck...what a massive cock-up, he thinks with dread, trying to figure out their next move.

“Gents, we need to get out, not only are we in danger of smoke inhalation but the cooker is fuelled by two propane tanks right outside the kitchen wall that could blow if the fire spreads from the roof down the side of the house,” Constance tells them urgently.

Porthos nods, and begins collecting all the weapons and ammunition from the table, shoving as much as he can in the pockets of his cargo trousers and handing the rest to d’Artagnan and Constance. “Constance, grab the extra keys for the barn, if we’re lucky the lads ‘ave left it unlocked and we won’t waste time trying to get in. Does that contraption work for the barn as well?” Porthos asks, indicating the control for the security system.

“Yes it does, and the roof is slate not shingle, the walls stone and the doors steel, we should be relatively safe from fire in there. The trick is getting there in one piece,” she says worriedly.

“We’ll go out the kitchen door, it’s closer to the barn, we’re done this a million times, we’ll be fine,” d’Artagnan says with false confidence. 

Constance grabs the tablet and all three of them double check their weapons, clips and vests. Constance tugs on d’Artagnan’s hand, pulling him back.

“Nothing stupid, alright?”

D’Artagnan plants a quick kiss on her mouth. “I promise,” he says, as they move towards Porthos who is waiting by the door. “I love you,” he adds meaningfully, just in case.

Constance nods slowly, hands shaking slightly as she uses the tablet to put up the shield on the back door. “Me too,” she replies and she shoves the tablet down the front of her shirt and under her Kevlar for safe keeping.  
When the shield goes up Porthos opens the door and the three of them share a fleeting look that says everything necessary, and then they rush outside.

 

*******************************************************

 

When d’Artagnan was just shy of 21 he’d graduated with a First Class Honours degree in Computer Science from UCL and hadn’t even had a chance to return his rented graduation gown when Treville had shown up at his job at Nando’s, ordered a whole chicken, extra hot, with two regular sides and handed d’Artagnan a card with a time and a place for an interview, along with a 10 pound tip. At first, d’Artagnan thought the older man was trying to pick him up so when Treville saw the comically shocked look on the boy’s face he’d burst out laughing and shown him his MoD identification and the rest is history. A few days after he would begin his two year stint in the armed forces, six months of that time in Afghanistan where he’d been sent to observe and train with the SAS. He was not an official member of the elite corps, although by the time he’d finished his training his commanding officer wanted him to go straight to SAS selection and he’d tried to convince d’Artagnan that his future was in the military. At the time, d’Artagnan had been tempted, but after meeting with Treville that fateful day in his office on his return from Afghan - the same day he’d met Constance – he’d decided what Treville was offering sounded a lot more thrilling. He went on to train for another year in Leeds with Constance as his fake/real lover, learning all the tricks of the trade and he’s never regretted his decision, not once.

Regardless of his ultimate career choices, in Afghanistan he’d proved his worth ten times over. There had been a situation where they’d been cut off and trapped in a Taliban stronghold, one remaining sniper with an anti-aircraft weapon the only thing standing between his team and their extraction point. Someone needed to get to the top of the opposite building to take out the sniper while the other six men laid down cover fire. No prizes for guessing who’d volunteered for what was very possibly a suicide mission. But his commanding officer had reluctantly agreed; d’Artagnan was one of only three uninjured soldiers and he was without a doubt the fastest of all of them. He’d stripped down to just his uniform and body armour, losing all the rest of his usual kit and swapped his automatic rifle for two handguns and run like the hounds of hell were on his tail while the rest of the team laid down cover fire. Three minutes later the bloke with the anti-aircraft weapon was toppling off the roof and d’Artagnan and his comrades were on their way to the extraction point, and in all honesty he’d been happy to put that harrowing day, and Afghanistan in general, behind him.

From the minute they’d opened the kitchen door, d’Artagnan was back in Afghanistan, the sound of automatic weapons fire and the smell of smoke and burning timber sending him hurtling back five and a half years, back into the kill or be killed frame of mind that had been instilled in him from day one. It’s pitch black outside with no working exterior lights and only a quarter moon and they’re dressed in dark clothes, all of which are to their advantage. With Porthos and Constance’s safety at the forefront, he wills himself to stay calm and shoot steady as they make their way towards the barn, backs to each other, moving quickly as one as they’ve done dozens of times before, shooting at anything that stirs as they do so. D’Artagnan hears the satisfied thud of a body hitting the ground more than once and the clicking sound that an automatic assault weapon makes when it jamms. They’re almost clear when he hears a pained grunt and he knows Porthos has been hit but his brother in arms does not go down. Two seconds later, they are behind the barn, with their backs against the sturdy stone and Constance is checking Porthos while d’Artagnan switches clips.

Porthos has taken a graze to the thigh, the bullet having gouged out a sizeable wound on his left thigh and it’s bleeding steadily but it doesn’t appear to have hit anything important. Constance ties the thin scarf she’d had around her neck over the wound, the gauzy material long enough to go around twice and she secures it by tying off the ends into a knot. Porthos huffs in pain but he doesn’t appear to be incapacitated and he replies to d’Artagnan’s questions regarding his fitness to continue with a stream of colourful language. 

“D’Artagnan, I’m almost certain there’s only two shooters left,” Constance whispers, wiping Porthos’ blood on her jeans. “We need to get inside the barn as soon as possible to regroup.”

“Alright. I’ll go first, Porthos behind me and Constance you take up the rear. Pray the fucking door isn’t locked!” d’Artagnan says, Glock and Beretta reloaded and one in each hand.

“D’Artagnan, nothing stupid, yeah?” Constance says for the second time that night, but this time it’s more like a threat than a warning.

“Never,” he replies with a lopsided grin and they fall into position. “Let’s move!”

To be continued……..

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shorter chapters from now on, I thing people get bored with longer ones?? This is 3k words, I think it works!!


	6. Interlude and Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Interlude is for my readers who have a special place in their hearts for Aramis and Athos:)

INTERLUDE  
Aramis and Athos

It was supposed to be simple…but then again when is anything _ever_?

At eight am Aramis and Athos depart the farmhouse, on their way to their scheduled meeting at Whitehall. The security video will show which maggot ‘interviewed’ Antonia and her colleagues, and Treville will then produce the audio from her meeting with d’Artagnan at Southbank and everything will fall neatly into place; baddies arrested for treason and murder, personnel files recovered, kiddies safe to play outside once more. Of course, none of the above actually happened in that order or that neatly…aside from the fact that the baddies had finally been exposed, which, at the very least, Athos thinks, is something.

They’re on the road that leads from the village to the motorway, Aramis literally riding ‘shotgun’ with their cache of weapons in the foot well of the passenger seat of the jeep and Athos driving, neither of them overly concerned but of course cautious, since _cautious_ is second nature in their line of work. The radio is off and conversation is mostly limited to the wet road conditions and their meet up with Serge at the Starbucks located at the rest stop about ¾ of a mile from the motorway entrance ramp. There’s a back way as well, using the local roads, through a wooded area and Aramis suggests that might be a safer route, in the off-chance that they are being followed. Athos agrees and instead of getting on the motorway he lets the GPS guide him via the local route, through a stretch of road that runs through some fields and a wooded area that neither of them are familiar with.

Literally out of nowhere, a black SUV appears behind them and Aramis immediately reaches for one of his weapons as a precaution.

“Company,” he tells Athos, completely thrown since the black jeep appeared out of thin air, neither of them having seen a vehicle behind them, especially not one driving so close to them. Athos, who is the most skilled driver of the lot of them – a result of years of driving uber-expensive sports cars - doesn’t panic but he speeds up to gauge the threat. 

Sure enough, the SUV speeds up as well. 

“First things first, let Serge know we might be in a spot of trouble,” Athos says calmly, keeping a steady speed on the narrow two lane road, one eye on the GPS to make sure they stay the course to their destination. Aramis fires off a quick text with their location and an SOS to Serge and checks the clip on his weapon. Seconds later, the SUV speeds up and rams the Range Rover, forcing it off the blacktop and into the trees on the right side of the road. Athos’ reflexes are quick but the road is slippery and the force of the impact is too violent to stop the Range Rover’s trajectory and there is a thunderous crash, airbags pop open and both agents are tossed about like rag dolls despite their seat-belts. The side of Aramis face connects with the window, Athos’s left arm hits something in the centre console and both feel like their brains have been rattled and their torsos are bruised by their seat-belts. But it’s life or death at the moment and Aramis, his head spinning violently, shoves the weapon with the full clip at Athos and he punctures the airbags with a utility knife. They both manage to duck just before a barrage of bullets hits the vehicle. 

Bless you, Treville, the entire Range Rover, they discover, is bullet proof.

“We can’t hide in here, the fuel tank could blow and there’s the possibility that they _have_ been shopping with the Russian mafia” Aramis hisses, referring to his joke about RPGs the previous day. They’ve both released their seats and rolled them back so there’s room for them to slide into the foot wells.

“We’re taking fire from two weapons only, from the right, we could slide out your side and use the jeep as cover, try and take them out?” Athos suggests, hoping that Aramis’ text to Serge will bring the cavalry sooner than later.

“Sounds like a plan…the only one actually,” Aramis says, head ringing. He can feel the bruises blooming on his head and face and he grimaces in pain as he checks the clips on the remaining weapons and hands Athos a second one. Without much choice, Aramis pulls back the handle and kicks open the passenger side door and he literally jumps out, shooting preemptively. Athos climbs over the middle console and practically spills out of the jeep onto the ground, jarring his left arm which feels like it’s broken; it’s not however, because he’s able to use his hand, he just doesn’t know for how much longer.

There’s two men in balaclavas shooting at them from behind the cover of their vehicle and the agents are returning fire carefully to save ammunition. Aramis suggests an old trick to lure them out; Athos nods and throws a handful of pine cones into the air which causes one of the two men to expose himself ever so slightly, a knee-jerk reaction of surprise, and Aramis takes him out with an expert shot to the head. 

There’s loud cursing, not English, it’s Chechen, Athos recognises, and the other man continues to fire, somewhat erratically though, the agents note, probably thoroughly rattled by the death of his comrade. There’s no need to worry about him any further however because the cavalry arrives at that moment and Spears takes out the remaining gunman while still in the now-infamous silver taxi van. 

Athos falls back against the Range Rover with a loud sigh of relief, and lets his aching body slide to the damp ground. His elbow is swelling rapidly, he feels tiny cuts stinging on his face, probably from stones and twigs when he rolled out of the jeep, but aside from that he’s mostly whole. Aramis is sitting in mostly the same position, back against the rear tire, his face a mess of blossoming bruises. Athos carefully moves closer and takes his friends chin in his hand to examine the damage.

“Concussion?” Athos queries, worried.

“Don’t think so,” Aramis replies, but his words are slightly slurred.

Serge and Spears appear in front of them, both men looking quite shocked and utterly confused. “What the ‘ell happened ‘ere, lads?” Serge asks, concerned. 

“Long story, remind me never to stray from the plan again, eh?” Aramis says groggily and he lets Spears pull him to his feet. 

“Hospital,” Spears says at once as Aramis wavers and Athos agrees. 

“Yes, we need to check his head. It’s as hard as a boulder, mind you, but still, as a precaution,” Athos says with an attempt at humour.

“But what about Whitehall and Treville?” Aramis protests, shaking his head as if that would clear his fogginess.

“It’s all gone to shit anyway, Treville said the meeting’s off, we were to escort you directly to Louis,” Serge tells them as he checks the Range Rover for weapons and ammunition. “Spears, give me a hand, will ya? We need get all the weapons outta here in case the local police stumble on it before the recovery lads pick it up.”

While the two older agents check the Range Rover, Athos helps Aramis to sit in the silver van and he straps him in. He then sits beside his friend and hisses in pain as he once again accidentally jars his arm. He considers calling Constance but if they’d been found on the road so close to the village there’s no telling how safe their mobiles are; a hit off a cell tower near the farm house could give them away so he decides to wait, confident that, with the firepower they have at their disposal and their experience, Constance, d’Artagnan and Porthos are safe where they are. 

With the Range Rover secured, they head towards the military hospital in London while Serge explains how it’s all gone bollocks up and their meeting cancelled.

“Rochefort’s skipped the country, he musta realized he was done for, he cut Marcheaux loose and left him to face the piper on ‘is own. It’s that wanker Marcheaux what ‘ad the girl killed, Treville got word from local police this morning. There’s a bulletin out on ‘im, they’ll find him sooner or later.”

“So who set those two after us, Rochefort or Marcheaux?” Athos asks, confused.

“Either, both, who knows at this point,” Spears replies, “what matters is that they’re both done.”

“And the bodies? Have you called for a clean-up crew?” Athos inquires.

“Lad, ‘ow long ‘ave you known me?” Serge asks, meeting Athos’ gaze in the rear-view mirror.

Athos nods. “Of course you’ve taken care of it,” he replies sardonically and Serge chuckles. 

“Well that about wraps it all up neatly for us, doesn’t it?” Athos says, somewhat relieved. It’s not over yet but they’re finally getting there. He checks on Aramis who is dozing and he pokes him lightly. “No sleeping, brother, not until you get checked out, alright?”

“Hmmnn, my head feels like there’s a bass drum inside of it…on crack, the throbbing won’t stop,” he moans.

“I can imagine,” Athos says sympathetically.

“Athos, the others?” Aramis asks at once, as if his head has just cleared and he’s remembered his teammates at the farmhouse.

“We shouldn’t risk communication. If they found us on the road it could have been from our phones, I don’t know how safe it is to contact them,” Athos says, worried as he considers all the possibilities.

“Brother, if they found us on the road out of the village, surely they can find the farmhouse? I can’t even wrap my head around how, though, we haven’t left there in two days to have been followed, it must be electronic surveillance of some kind, or drones like Porthos said,” Aramis says, some of his words slurring. 

Athos grimaces at the bruises blooming on the side of Aramis’ face and his slurred speech. The others are in a veritable fortress and they have a small armoury at their disposal, surely they’ll be safe for a few hours while Aramis gets checked out? As soon as Aramis is seen to they’ll head straight back to the village and take Treville and the rest of the team with them, just in case.

The problem with Athos’ plan though is that nothing actually goes to plan. Aramis needs a CT scan and the Trauma Team refuses to let him go until he’s been seen by a neurologist. Athos, fortunately, only needs a sling for his injured elbow and a ton of anti-inflammatories and the cuts on his face are superficial, but it still takes two hours for him to be ready to be discharged. When Aramis is finally cleared to go, Treville shows up and insists that they go straight to Louis, who’s been frothing at the mouth ever since Rochefort skipped the country. It’s nearly 4:30 when Athos and Aramis are sitting in another agency Range Rover, Treville and the others to follow in the silver taxi van after they refuel, and Athos risks calling Constance since they are on their way back to the village.

That 2 minute phone call will inadvertently change all of their lives forever.

 

*************************************************

Chapter 6

 

The barn door is unlocked. 

Bless you, brothers, d’Artagnan thinks and he inches the sliding metal door open just enough to fit them to pass through. He practically shoves Porthos and Constance into the barn and then locks the door from the inside with the extra keys Constance tosses him. 

Constance pulls the tablet from inside her Kevlar vest and scrolls through the controls looking for the settings for the barn. When she find what she’s looking for she chooses ‘windows’ and presses the screen but nothing happens. She tries again another three times and when there’s still nothing Porthos flips a light switch, confirming what they’d begun to suspect; the generator doesn’t cover the barn. 

At that moment the glass of one of the three windows on the side of the barn parallel to the house smashes inward and a hail of automatic gunfire peppers the building. Porthos pushes Constance away from the window and they crash to the ground, the big man letting out a pained groan when his injured leg hits the flagstone floor. 

D’artagnan crawls to the broken window, mindful of the shattered glass but he can’t avoid all of it and he ends up with bloody knees. He returns fire with the Beretta until the clip runs out and they are no longer taking fire. Out of the corner of his eye he’s sure he sees the shooter in the underbrush near one of the black SUVs and he decides to test a theory. He crawls away from the window again and grabs an old wheel cover. 

“Stay down,” he tells the others in a whispered hiss and he tosses the rusty metal out of the broken window. Sure enough, the shooter raises himself slightly and fires at the wheel cover on instinct; d’Artagnan now knows exactly where he is. 

“Listen to me; I can see him. The two of you need to fire through the broken window, towards the underbrush as a diversion, to cover me so I can slide out from the main door and take him out.”

Constance balks at once. “Are you mad? Go out there by yourself, up against an AK47 and armed with only a Glock? Absolutely not, we’ll wait for the others, they should be here soon…any minute actually,” she reasons in a whisper, while checking Porthos’ bleeding leg. 

“She’s right, d’Artagnan, we need to stay together. If they try and storm the barn we still ‘ave the advantage, we’ll ‘ear them coming, that door weighs a ton,” Porthos reasons.

D’Artagnan shakes his head, frustrated. “No, we’re just a few feet from the propane tanks and the fire is spreading, staying in here and doing nothing is way more dangerous.”

“I thought we agreed, nothing stupid,” Constance reminds him, her tone stone cold and her expression tight.

“Constance, we don’t have a choice and while we argue that shooter could be on the move. As long as you distract him I can take him!”

“D’Artagnan, as the most senior agent present I forbid you from doing this,” Porthos growls out in a formal tone that d’Artagnan has never heard him use before, his expression fierce.

“Brother, you know there's no other way. In here, we’re vulnerable, and there’s too much stacked against us.” He tosses the Beretta to Constance and follows with the two remaining clips from his pockets. She catches the empty weapon and ammunition silently and loads the gun while d’Artagnan checks the clip on his Glock; it’s only half full.

“If you go out that door,” she says slowly, “without all three of us agreeing to your plan, it counts as ‘something stupid’,” she warns him quietly.

Another blast of gunfire breaks a second window sending glass flying around them and Porthos immediately ducks beside the window frame returns fire. It’s now or never, d’Artagnan thinks, as he considers all the dangers one last time; the propane, the fire spreading to the barn, a full on assault with the AK47 that could easily take out all three of them in seconds, as there is nowhere in the barn to take cover if the door is breached. His decision is made.

He doesn’t give the others time to protest or a chance to stop him. He sprints for the door, unlocks it and hisses ‘cover me’. They might be furious with him, but there’s not a chance in hell that they won’t lay down cover fire, of this he can be certain.

D’Artagnan slides through the opening and closes the door as quietly as he possibly can. From inside the barn, Porthos and Constance have begun firing, but just a few shots to occupy the shooter since d’Artagnan knows they are low on ammunition. He literally has seconds to move as stealthily as possible from the barn to the underbrush since the longer it takes him to eliminate the threat, the more ammunition Porthos and Constance waste.

It’s pitifully easy to sneak up on the masked man with the AK47 and Porthos was correct; there is no way these men are anything but hired muscle. The thug swings around towards d’Artagnan but it’s too late; two shots from d’Artagnan’s Glock to the head and he’s down. One left. 

D’Artagnan moves swiftly away from the dead thug and towards the first of the two black SUVs parked in front of the house. Smoke is filing the air, making it hard to take a deep breath, and he’s struggling not to cough so he doesn’t give himself away. He moves around the back of the SUV as quietly as possible, until he’s standing between the two vehicles. With his Glock firmly held in both hands, he swings from right to left, looking for the last assailant. There’s a crack of a twig, a rustle of leaves and even with the noise of the flames licking at the roof timbers d’Artagnan hears the soft sounds and swings back to his right and comes face to face with George Marcheaux. 

D’Artagnan doesn’t have time to think, he just fires, managing to get off three shots, but the other man instantly returns fire and D’Artagnan is thrown backwards, his body slamming hard into the rear quarter panel of the SUV. 

Holy fuck, d’Artagnan thinks shocked…the round has gone right through his Kevlar. 

The breath is knocked out of him and he slips downwards, hitting the gravel with a jarring thud. He cries out in agony and for a split second everything goes white.

“I’ve been waiting a long time to see you fall on your arse,” Marcheaux says with a manic grin on his face, walking slowly towards d’Artagnan who is stunned and in pain but lucid. In the semi-darkness, d’Artagnan can see a hole in the other man’s jacket on his right shoulder, another over the pocket right above his left hip and a wet stain on the side of his thigh but Marcheaux is still upright despite the fact that he is losing blood for three separate wounds. The older man still has his weapon in his right hand but it’s hanging down at his side, and d’Artagnan realises that he probably no longer has full use of that arm. He catalogues that fact as his fuzzy brain tries to figure a way out of this.

“You and that bitch…what do you call her? Constance right? Team 3, Treville’s Musketeers,” he sneers, “you think you’re indestructible. Well you’re not, are you mate?” he says with a chuckle, kicking d’Artagnan hard in the thigh. The kick jars his whole body and d’Artagnan is once again breathless and in agony. There’s blood in his mouth and the pain is centred in his chest, so even severely incapacitated he registers punctured lung. “More like the fucking Mouseketeers, I reckon…,” he says laughing at his own joke. “That girl of yours, she thought I’d forget her, but I never did. That slut was asking for it from the moment she walked into that pub, all I did was offer her what she wanted.”

“Once I blow your fucking head off I’m going to fuck your girlfriend for a week straight, until she can’t walk, she owes me an apology, I’ll get it out of her while she screams my name with my cock in her cunt,” Marcheaux screeches, spittle flying from his mouth and sweat running down his face as he sways. “And then I’m going to kill her slowly and painfully, and while I’m doing it I’ll remind her that I blew her little boy toy’s brains out, all over the countryside, maybe I’ll scoop up the bits and put them a jar, give them her as a present.” There’s an insanity in his gaze that d’Artagnan had seen a tiny glimpse of years before but he could have never predicted that the older man would end up like this, a crazed thug and a cold-blooded murderer. 

Blood is burning his throat and pooling in his mouth and he parts his lips and lets it slide down his chin and drip on his hoodie so he doesn’t choke on it. The pain in his chest is paralysing, and every breath is a miracle and he accepts that he is losing more blood than a person can afford to in the time it would take for help to arrive. Marcheaux continues to monologue, sweating and shaking from blood loss, making all kinds of threats against Constance and the others, raving like a madman, and relishing in d’Artagnan’s dire state.

D’Artagnan realizes though that he may still have the advantage; his Glock is still resting loosely in the palm of his hand. There is no guarantee that he will actually manage to grip it tight, let alone raise his arm but he knows it’s his only hope. Athos and Aramis are probably close but he doesn’t think he will last long enough for his brothers to swoop in and save the day. Marcheaux is now the most dangerous kind of killer; one with nothing to lose. D’Artagnan has no idea if Porthos and Constance have any ammunition left, if Porthos has succumbed to blood loss, or if either of them had been injured while they lay down cover fire for him. If he dies before taking out Marcheaux everything he holds most precious in this world could follow. He uses his anger and his fear for the others to give him just enough strength to grip the weapon tight in his trembling hand and he angles the barrel upwards and fires.

The round hits Marcheaux square in the face. 

Marcheaux never had a chance to react, so filled with rage and hate and insanity-fuelled confidence it probably hadn’t occurred to him that the mortally wounded D’Artagnan would actually have the fortitude to shoot him. Either that or he simply didn’t bother to notice the gun in his hand, so wrapped up in his maniacal ranting and his morbid fantasies of revenge. The fatally wounded man crumples to the ground like a puppet with broken strings, the back of his skull gone, and just like that, it’s over.

“That’s for Constance,” d’Artagnan says out loud. It comes out like a frail whisper but there’s no one left to hear him anyway. He looks at the body of the man he has just killed and he feels absolutely no remorse. It was him or them and d’Artagnan refuses to feel regret. He sighs and it comes out like a wet wheeze and he is reminded that he needs help immediately. No gunfire or sounds of voices or footsteps come from the direction of the barn after the shot that killed Marcheaux had been fired and he prays that Porthos and Constance are still safe. Each breath is a painful gasp and he coughs, choking on the blood that doesn’t stop flowing from his damaged left lung, up through his windpipe and into his mouth. He turns his head weakly and spits out a mouthful of coppery liquid but within seconds his mouth is full again. He hangs his head forward and just lets it run.

Over the horrifying sounds of the farmhouse burning, d’Artagnan dimly hears a vehicle coming up the drive. He has no idea if it’s friend or foe and he’s pretty sure he only has one round left in his weapon but his trembling hands are now useless so whether it’s one round or five it wouldn’t make a difference. The headlights blind him and he closes his eyes against the glare and spits out a mouthful of blood, feeling defeated. 

Two doors open, there are rapid footsteps and boots crunching gravel and he hears the comforting sound of familiar voices and his eyes unwittingly fill with tears.

“D’Artagnan!” Aramis cries out and his brother lands heavily on his knees beside him.

“Athos, we need a air evac _now_!” he barks out, his hands shaking as he pulls apart d’Artagnan’s jacket without removing his Kevlar vest, the left side of the medic’s face a swollen and bruised mess. 

“I need the med kit from the jeep, he’s bleeding out,” Aramis urgently tells Athos, who’s made the call for help and is now kneeling on d’Artagnan’s other side, his expression stricken, the cuts peppering his face and the sling on his left arm confirming that his brothers had indeed met with trouble. The senior agent rushes back to the jeep and when he returns he opens the metal box and starts ripping open packages of gauze, obviously hindered by his injured left arm, but that doesn’t stop him from assisting Aramis. The medic piles the clean gauze under d’Artagnan’s Kevlar and on the wound and he cries out feebly in pain. Aramis feels around on his back and d’Artagnan knows he’s searching for an exit wound. The medic lets out a frustrated breath when he realises there isn’t one.

“What about a chest seal?” Athos asks anxiously. “I think there’s some in here.”

“No, too much blood, it won’t stick and there’s simply too much trauma…close range, Athos, and through his vest,” Aramis is saying, clearly distraught. 

Athos's mouth tightens into a tense line and he nods, turning his attention back to d’Artagnan. “Where are the others, child?” Athos asks urgently, using the sleeve of his jacket to wipe away some of the blood from d’Artagnan’s chin.

D’Artagnan coughs up another mouthful of blood and spits. “In the barn, it’s over,” he replies, referring to the dead bodies littering the grounds around the burning farmhouse.

“Why are they in the barn, d’Artagnan, and what the bloody hell happened?” Athos demands.

D’Artagnan tries to take a shallow breath but there is no air. “I…I left them there…to cover me,” he admits, his voice no more than a faint whisper, his body twisting feebly as he is wracked by a wave of pain when Aramis presses harder on his wound. 

In the distance, d’Artagnan can hear engines and sirens. The strength he’d been clinging to so desperately is fading and he can’t even cry out when Aramis packs more gauze and puts further pressure on the hole in his chest. Athos reaches forward and takes chin in his freezing cold right hand. The smoke from the fire is beginning to burn d’Artagnan’s eyes, the sound of cracking timber as the roof finally gives and collapses inwards like a barrage of gunfire.

“What have you done, child?” he says hoarsely, his blue-green eyes wild and wet with tears, his expression anguished. “ _What stupid thing have you done?_ ”

D’Artagnan feels his heart break at the look on the older man’s face. Athos has been his mentor, his father figure from day one, and it hurts him more than his wound to see him look so grief-stricken. He lifts a violently shaking hand to Athos’s face and his bloody fingers swipe at a tear than clings to the older man’s jaw.

“I’m sorry,” he manages to say, his fingertips leaving a trail of blood on Athos’ pale face when his hand falls listlessly and his lids droop.

Aramis slaps his face hard. “Don’t you fucking dare!” the medic hisses, “You can sleep all you want later, right now I need you to focus. Are you hurt anywhere else?” he demands to know.

D’Artagnan shakes his head slowly. He spits out more blood and tries not to cough because it hurts too fucking much to do so.

“What about Porthos and Constance, do they need medical attention?”

“Porthos got clipped on the thigh…” he rasps, lids falling. He anticipates another stinging slap but there is simply nothing more that he can do, the fight has literally bled out of him, all over his t-shirt, his hoody and his flannel pajamas and stained the white gravel of the driveway. The sirens are now louder, fire brigade, probably an ambulance he thinks dimly, hopefully more law enforcement. D’Artagnan hears Porthos calling his name and he feels his heart stutter in relief. 

“Where the fuck is he?” Porthos growls, “I’m gonna kill that fucking little twat!” he roars. D’Artagnan forces his eyes open and turns his head slightly to see the big man limping towards him, Constance on his heels. But the second that Porthos see what’s happened, he spins and grabs Constance, pulling her back. 

“Porthos, tend to Constance, make sure she’s not injured,” Athos says immediately. D’Artagnan knows that means keep her back.

Aramis pulls on the straps on his Kevlar vest and d’Artagnan gasps, shocked as the vest tightens around his injured chest. “I’m sorry, I know it hurts, but it will help with the bleeding, lad,” the older man says, apologetic. 

D’Artagnan is minutes from death, he acknowledges this fact with a dull acceptance, but he’s strangely not afraid. Constance is safe, his brothers are safe and he’s done some good in the 28 years he’s lived. He thinks about his parents and his older brother and he feels regret that they will probably never know this side of him, never know what he’s done to serve his country, never know about the lives he’s saved and the death and destruction he’s prevented, but at least they’ll always know he’d loved them fiercely, as do Constance and the others, and that will have to do. 

Aramis is shaking him, Athos is gripping his hand and sobbing softly, and then everything goes black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story was written before 'In Restless Dreams' and when I started editing this one for posting I realised that I'd partly plagiarised myself in a few instances here and there, but it couldn't be changed since it would ruin parts of the remainder of the story. So, apologies! And thanks of course!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there. So I've decided to post the remaining three chapters and the epilogue over the next two days. When it's all posted, I'll explain my reasoning. Thanks so much to everyone who has taken the time to review:)

What happens next is a morbid kaleidoscope of sounds and sensations that have become too deeply imprinted on his brain for d’Artagnan to ever forget. He doesn’t remember being put in the helicopter but he has a vivid recollection of being wheeled into the hospital because he remembers vomiting copious amounts of blood all over himself and the ever-present Aramis. He recalls being intubated, probably in the A&E, and fighting against the painful plastic tube until being sedated. He has a vague memory of Aramis trying to soothe him when he first woke in recovery after surgery and was confused and in agony. There’s a sound bite running through his head of Athos speaking urgently in his ear, telling him to stop moving around or they’ll have to restrain him. At some point he is restrained and he fights against the soft Velcro straps and Athos curses an uncharacteristic blue streak while calling out for a nurse. 

He’s moved more than once, and for each time he recalls pain and nausea from the rolling of the gurney and the soothing tones of either Aramis or Athos speaking to him softly, encouraging him to relax and to sleep. There are also bits of conversation; Treville and Athos, Athos and Aramis, Athos and doctors and nurses, he assumes, because they discuss d’Artagnan’s condition and Athos never sounds pleased. They use terms like _touch and go_ and say _the next few hours are crucial_ and Athos balks, saying _he’s a highly decorated agent, one of the Ministers favourites_ in a chilling and frightening tone. Mostly he remembers periodically waking in an uncomfortable bed and feeling a pain in his chest like someone had taken a saw to his breastbone, which ironically, someone had, and then his brothers assuring him that someone will come and deal with his pain. There are gentle touches from rough fingers on his face and his hands and he just knows it’s Aramis, just like he knows the sound of boots pacing linoleum is Athos. Of Porthos he can only recall a fleeting glimpse of him standing over his bed just once, his expression terse and guarded and then he was gone, leaving d’Artagnan feeling particularly distressed and alone.

What he doesn’t remember throughout all of this hell however, is Constance. 

 

***********************************************

 

D’Artagnan had been waiting patiently for nearly four years to hear Athos’ story. He knew it would happen someday but he could never have imagined that it would come in the form of a bed-side confession while he was mostly out of his mind on morphine. 

Earlier in the day, when he’d been fully lucid for the first time since being shot, a group of doctors appeared, poking and prodding at him. One explained that the sternotomy that had been performed to save his life shouldn’t cause him much pain due to the absence of muscle and nerves in the area that the incision had been made but d’Artagnan thinks they’re all full of shit because despite being pumped full of opiates he feels like there is an elephant sitting on his chest and a red-hot poker burning a hole in his left lung. He barely has the strength to complain and his voice is once again wrecked by the respirator tube so he mostly just whimpers when he needs more meds and whoever is beside him at the time gets a nurse. At the moment, it’s Athos, minus the sling, his face still covered with small healing cuts.

The older man is sitting in a chair beside his bed and despite the fact that he must be aware of the fact that D’Artagnan is awake he hasn’t said a word to him. D’Artagnan feels bereft, mostly because it’s quite uncharacteristic of Athos to not berate him for what he’d done, nor has he even bothered to inquire about the level of his pain. D’Artagnan is having a hard time concentrating as it is, his veins swimming with what he assumes is a cocktail of antibiotics, pain-killers and fluids necessary to keep him both alive and immobile. As if he would even try to move, he thinks, continuing the conversation he is having with himself in his head. 

“Your kamikaze tendencies are becoming tedious, child,” Athos says finally but he hasn’t turned to face him. Instead, the older man has his gaze fixed somewhere on the floor and a long pause follows before he starts to speak again.

“We are a team and we function best when we rely on one another and consult one another. What you did was not heroic; it was stupid and selfish and if you had died the rest of us would have had to face a lifetime of guilt and grief. What do you have to say for yourself?”

D’Artagnan doesn’t know how he’s supposed to reply. He feels severely impaired by the drugs and the pain and he has a grocery list of reasons for what he’d done but he’s pretty sure that Athos is expecting an apology so he tries to give him one. “’m s’rry” he manages to croak and he stretches his hand out slightly, hoping that Athos will grab hold and let him know that all’s forgiven, but he doesn’t.

“My idiot brother was like you…and he got himself killed for it. And just so you know, even though he’s dead, I’ve never forgiven him for it,” Athos tells him, speaking quietly, obviously mindful of their surroundings, but the softness of his tone doesn’t hide his fury or his pain.

“I’m sorry…” he says again, louder he thinks this time but his voice is still barely a whisper.

Athos lets out a long breath. “I know that you’ve all wanted to know what happened to my family…and to my wife, but I’ve kept it to myself all these years. Frankly it’s no one’s business but mine but mostly it hurts too much to revisit the worst moments of my life. But I am going to tell you because secrets have consequences, child, as do idiotic, heroic gestures.”

“Ten years ago I married a woman who seemed to be everything I’d ever dreamed of. Beautiful, smart, witty, caring,” Athos explains, rising from the chair and moving to stand over D’Artagnan’s bed, his expression grim. “About a year after our wedding my brother Thomas accidentally discovered that she and her brother were plotting to kill us all – my parents, myself and Thomas – and make it look like a tragic accident in order to inherit my father’s substantial wealth. Instead of telling me straight away or calling the authorities, he went into a rage and confronted her. He told her he would expose her if she didn’t disappear and never return. He’d wanted to spare me the pain of the truth, he thought it would be easier for me to accept that she had run off than the fact that she’d never loved me and wanted me dead,” he says, his voice breaking. “So she killed him, shot him dead then and there with a gun she’d had in her purse, God knows where she’d gotten it from, and then went looking for my parents who were at home on the estate as well. She executed them; one shot to the back of the head each and started filling her bags with my mother’s jewellery and whatever else she could get her hands on. One of the maids heard everything and called the police from her mobile from where she’d been hiding in a cupboard and the rest is history; she and her brother are in prison for life, and I lost my entire family in the space of a half hour.”

D’Artagnan is stunned. He had imagined something tragic but Athos’ story and the pain he sees on the other man’s face leaves him breathless, it’s so much worse than he could have ever imagined.

“Treville is a distant cousin of my father’s, but they were quite close, had been at boarding school together, and he made sure justice was done. After, he came to see me and let’s just say he was unhappy with the state he found me in. The rest, as the phrase goes, is history,” Athos explains, sinking back into his chair.

“What you did, what you put me through…I should walk out that door and never look back, have you transferred to the deepest bowels of the archives, that would be a fitting punishment for sure,” he says with a mirthless chuckle, staring blankly at the wall opposite them, shaking his head as if engaged in some internal monologue with himself.

“When I first met you I was fully prepared to dislike you; I thought you were far too young and too brash to contribute anything constructive to the Team and you proved me wrong, over and over again and you became my friend, my brother, someone as dear to me as my own family had been. Can you imagine how Aramis and I felt when we found you, half dead, separated from the others and choking on your own blood? It’s not a rhetorical question, d’Artagnan, I don’t expect you to reply in the state you’re in but there will be a reckoning for this you idiot boy, you will answer for your stupidity and your recklessness and be sure; I will take my proverbial pound of flesh,” Athos says with uncharacteristic anger and vehemence.

With his faculties impaired d’Artagnan stupidly tries to pull himself up; he needs to say something, do something, anything, he’s mortified, overcome with shame and regret, but when he tries to move the alarm on his heart monitor shrieks and the room is almost instantly flooded with medical personnel. A nurse is questioning Athos loudly but d’Artagnan has no idea what they are saying. Someone is checking the sternotomy staples, then the stitches on his chest and oh fuck, everything hurts, he thinks miserably. He doesn’t want Athos to leave, not before he can apologise again so he tries to protest when a nurse says he needs to be sedated. 

“No!” he says firmly, but it’s just a garbled growl since nothing coherent comes out of his wrecked throat. The nurse ignores him and she injects something directly into one of the ports on his hand and within seconds his lids are drooping and he’s loopy and unfocused, and then there is nothing.

 

***********************************

 

Things appear to have taken a drastic turn for the worst, d’Artagnan realises immediately, when he next opens his eyes. He has no idea how long he’s been out; his mouth is dry and feels like it’s stuffed with cotton, his eyes feel hot and itchy and his head is throbbing. To his complete horror he discovers that there is nothing but a thin sheet covering his nakedness and the dreaded catheter is still stuck in his dick. The massive incision on his chest is exposed as is the smaller one just below his left nipple. His room is full of people but d’Artagnan can’t differentiate between doctors, nurses or orderlies, they are all just a blur of blue, green and white scrubs and muted voices. And he’s cold, utterly fucking freezing and he tries to reach for the sheet to pull it up to cover himself since no one else seems to have bothered to do so.

“Luv, please, you need to stay still,” a kind female voice soothes and the sheet is once again pulled down to cover just his groin. 

“Cold,” he manages to say looking at her imploringly.

“I know, but you have a fever and it’s best to keep you uncovered for now,” the young woman tells him. “The doctor is almost done checking your wounds and your chart, I’ll ask him if we can get you a light blanket alright, luv?”

D’Artagnan wants to plead with her to cover him now but he’s too weak. The chair next to his bed is empty and a sick feeling of dread overcomes him. “Is…is anyone…here,” he asks slowly, his voice like broken glass.

“Yes luv, your friend is right outside, don’t fret.”

D’Artagnan swallows the painful lump in throat. “Constance?” he asks, hoping she understands.

“A handsome bloke with a beard, I didn’t get his name,” she replies and takes a thermometer from the bedside table, holding it in front of his forehead to measure his temperature. It must be high because the look on her face is tense.

“It’s still 40C,” she tells the doctor who has come to stand beside her.

“Hi there, young man, how are you feeling?” he asks with obvious false cheeriness.

“Wrecked,” d’Artagnan replies, meaning it in every sense of the word, there’s not a part of his body that doesn’t feel like it’s on fire or in pain.

The doctor nods. “You’ve developed a post-operative infection, lad, it’s not uncommon and we’re managing the situation but at the moment you have a high fever. Jess says you’re cold, we can get you a light blanket but we need to keep you cool,” he says apologetically. 

“Aright,” he says. “Can I…have visitors?”

“Yes, as soon as we’re done here your mate can come back,” the nurse, Jess assures him, and she gives the orderly instructions to bring an extra sheet and a light blanket and to clean up the dressings the doctor has removed from d’Artagnan’s chest. “We need to leave these open for today, luv, so we can see what’s going on, so please be careful.”

D’Artagnan nods and Jess puts something in his drip. “For the pain,” she tells him and within seconds his eyes are closing again. They open instantly though at the sound of the chair beside him dragging across the linoleum. A haggard-looking Aramis literally falls into it and gives him a lopsided grin. The bruising on his face has faded to a sickly yellow-green and there dark shadows under his eyes. “Miss me?”

D’Artagnan tries to smile. “Of course.”

Aramis, he notices, is wearing a white gown over his clothes and blue latex surgical gloves, and he’s holding a mask in his hands. “I have to put this on,” he says apologetically, “or they’ll make me leave.”

“It’s that bad?” D’Artagnan asks, worried.

“Of course not!” Aramis replies at once, his voice slightly muffled by the paper mask. “It’s a precaution, to keep you safe.”

D’Artagnan nods slowly. He has no idea how many days have passed, it’s all been a blur and he can’t remember when he last saw Constance or Porthos. He knows he’s been out of it, but surely they must have been there. 

“Constance?” he asks hopefully. She must be close by, maybe she’s gone somewhere to rest or maybe she’s on her way back.

Aramis remains silent. He clasps his hands together and looks down at the floor, clearly avoiding eye contact and d’Artagnan’s question.

D’Artagnan shivers violently and not just from the fever. “Aramis, what’s happened, is she hurt or…”

“No, lad, nothing like that, I promise…” the older man says soothingly, pushing the mask down and taking d’Artagnan’s burning hand in his glove covered one. 

“Where is she, brother?” 

“Porthos took her home...back to Guildford. She was feeling…overwhelmed, so much has happened…” Aramis tells him, trailing off. “She’ll be back soon, I’m sure.”

Tears spring to his eyes instantly. This is not happening, he tells himself, Constance would never go home without him, would she?

He lays there, stunned, tears unabashedly spilling from the corners of his eyes and disappearing into his hair. He doesn’t have the physical strength or the will to wipe them away. Five years together, how could Constance have abandoned him? 

“Has she left me, Aramis? If she has…you should…just tell me,” he says dejectedly. The pain in his head has steadily intensified in the last few minutes and he shuts his eyes against the harsh fluorescent lights that seem to exacerbate the steady throb.

“D’Artagnan, I…” Aramis begins, but then he just trails off and d’Artagnan knows that he has his answer.

“You need to rest, lad,” Aramis says finally, his voice soothing, his hand still holding d’Artagnan’s. “Things will look brighter once you’re feeling better,” he reasons.

D’Artagnan wants to reply and tell him that without Constance he simply couldn’t give a fuck if he ever feels better. He can’t speak though, the pain in his head intensifying with each passing moment. He whimpers and Aramis bolts from his chair. 

“D’Artagnan, tell me what’s happening,” he asks, reaching for the call button. 

“’urts,” he slurs, “my head feel so hot…’urts…”d’Artagnan tells him, tears still leaking steadily from his burning eyes, but now mostly from the physical pain rather than the emotional upheaval. 

He vaguely hears Aramis calling for help and Jess, the young nurse, appears beside him and she puts both hands on his face to turn his head towards her and pries his lids open, speaking to him calmly while urging him to open his eyes on his own. He tries, but his lids are just so heavy and his head feels like it’s going to explode. Jess curses a blue streak and tells Aramis to get a doctor, quickly. 

His limbs go slack and he feels like he’s falling, and then everything around him simply fades.

 

*********************************************

 

It takes two full weeks to rid d’Artagnan of the infection that has plagued him since the fifth day after being shot. He’d spent most of that time in the ICU where a team of doctors had fought tooth and nail to keep him from going septic. By the time he’s moved back into a regular room he’s weak as a newborn kitten and can barely stay awake for more than a few moments at a time. During his time in the ICU, Athos tells him, he and Treville had debated the necessity of informing his parents. When he began to show signs of improvement though, they decided against it. Athos sent his mum a text from d’Artagnan’s private number, telling her that he would be away for work for a month and mostly out of contact. D’Artagnan smiles weakly when his friend reads him her lengthy and angry response. 

“I don’t remember much,” d’Artagnan admits, sitting up in bed for the very first time, barely strong enough to keep his head up straight.

“Your fever spiked and you had a seizure, child,” the older man explains patiently. “Aramis wailed like an old woman, Porthos arrived and started threatening the staff with bodily harm and Treville informed your doctors that their next posting would be somewhere in Siberia if you died. It was all very dramatic.”

D’Artagnan laughs, a proper chuckle, and he winces slightly at the twinge of pain in his chest. He’s sure Athos is exaggerating but there probably is some truth to most of it. “I miss Porthos, I didn’t know if he’d come back at all,” he admits. “I treated him…poorly the last time I saw him.”

“Indeed, but wild horses couldn’t keep him away,” Athos informs him. “I’ve never seen him so out of sorts, it was…unnerving. In any case he’s been back in London for the past 10 days or so. He’s staying with his ex, Ellie, which has been…interesting.”

“In what way?”

Athos smiles. “Interesting in the way that there appears to be a chance of reconciliation.” 

D’Artagnan grins. “Some good news, finally. I’m sure little Marie is very happy to have her Daddy around.”

Athos nods in agreement and settles back into his chair, clearly exhausted. D’Artagnan is suddenly acutely aware of the havoc he has caused. He has upended everyone’s lives and he feels dreadfully guilty but not in any way sorry that Marcheaux is dead by his hand. In hindsight he thinks he might have handled it differently if he had a chance to do it again…but somehow he doubts it. 

“When can I go home?” he asks drowsily, hoping it will be soon.

“You jest, child, you nearly died, I don’t think you’re going anywhere for a while.”

D’Artagnan is about to protest when he remembers that he doesn’t actually have a home to return to. The thought knocks the breath out of him and must have made some kind of sound because Athos is on his feet and has his hand on his arm.

“D’Artagnan, are you in pain?” the older man asks anxiously from where he’s standing above him.

“No, not that kind of pain,” he replies dejectedly. He doesn’t even ask if Constance has been there. He remembers his conversation with Aramis very clearly even if everything else is mostly a blur. He hazily recalls asking for her while out of his head with fever but doesn’t remember seeing her at all.

“I see,” Athos says sympathetically. “Child, you did a stupid thing. She might yet forgive you though, so concentrate on getting well so you can patch things up.”

“I thought you were dead-set against us?” he asks, puzzled. 

“Yes, as part of the team.”

D’Artagnan goes rigid. “Am I no longer a part of the team?”

Athos lets out a long breath. “Lad, you won’t be fit for duty for at least eight to ten months. For the moment, you are on paid sick leave and the rest we will deal with when you’re well again.”

“What?” D’Artagnan says, stunned. “Eight to ten months, are you serious? I’ll go mad!”

“No, you won’t,” Athos soothes. “When you are ready to leave here you will come home with me. I don’t think your parents should see you like this,” he reasons. “You will attend physical therapy in town and build up your strength and when that happens Treville and I will see what’s to be done.”

“You’ve got it all planned out have you?” he asks bitterly. “So I guess I am no longer welcome at my own house with Constance then.”

“Constance is quite traumatised, not to mention furious that you left her and Porthos in the barn to face Marcheaux and his mercenaries on your own. She needs time and you will give it to her. You will stay with me so you will see her on occasion and you will behave like an adult,” Athos tells him firmly, as if he is talking to a small boy. “During your convalescence you will also focus on your attitude. If you can’t function as part of a team and you insist on taking ridiculous risks I will be forced to ask Treville to transfer you to a desk job.”

He wants to react, violently actually, but that would just be one more nail in his proverbial coffin. “OK, I get it, behave or die of boredom at a desk,” he concedes reluctantly. “Speaking of work, no one ever bothered to explain your accident, and most importantly, how Marcheaux found the farmhouse?”

Athos barks out a laugh. “Now you’re asking?”

“I guess I was a bit preoccupied with everything else,” he says, gesturing to the machines that are still attached to various parts of his body. At least the dreaded catheter seems to be gone and he wearing boxers and pyjamas. Thank God for small mercies.

“Drones, you can blame the whole mess of those horrid little machines, they used a combination of cell phone tracking and drones. Rochefort had another unfortunate victim under his thumb at the MoD who used our own technology against us. I’m sure Porthos is better equipped to explain exactly how that all worked but the phone call I made to Constance as we were leaving London is what led Marcheaux right to you. In any case, you already know we were run off the road and eventually Serge and Spears came to our rescue. After a necessary hospital visit we were whisked off to a meeting with Louis who was in a frenzy over all that had happened. Aramis had a mild concussion but he’s stubborn as a mule and we set off for the village as soon as we could but that bastard Marcheaux had already found you,” he says with a grimace. 

D’Artagnan is stunned, it’s a lot to process and even more difficult since his brain is not fully ‘online’ as of yet, but he urges Athos to continue.

“Marcheaux tried to kill us all simply for revenge, he had nothing else left to gain or lose after Rochefort ran and left him holding the bag. Those men at the farmhouse? Chechen mercenaries for hire, all dead by the way aside from one who is cooperating with the prosecutor in exchange for leniency,” Athos says, disgusted. “All manner of praise has been heaped upon us by Louis. He seems overly relieved to be rid of Rochefort, which is odd for someone who had supported his career and his promotion. Treville and I had the idea that Rochefort might have been blackmailing or threatening the Minister in some other way but it doesn’t really matter now, I doubt he’ll resurface any time soon, not with Interpol and MI6 hunting him all over Europe and the Middle East, I’m sure he’s gone deep, he knows the drill, after all he was once one of us. In any case, the debrief will take ages, all of us have to give statements, Treville is still piecing everything together for the official inquiry, it’s mostly a mess at the moment but nothing for you to concern yourself with.”

The truth is though that d’Artagnan is already exhausted and his lids drooping and he mostly just understands that everyone is happy that Rochefort is gone and has been discredited , Marcheaux and his Chechen friends are dead, and that his team is now safe.

“D’Artagnan, there’s something else I have to tell you,” Athos says, and his tone makes d’Artagnan’s heart stutter and his eyes fly open.

“What?” he asks, worried.

“There was an envelope for you, in our mailbox at our offices at Whitehall, it seems to have been there for a while, it was postmarked the day after you’d been poisoned actually. The outer envelope was addressed to Treville, but inside there was another envelope with your code name on it. One of Treville’s admins put it in our box apparently, didn’t think anything of it, never mentioned anything about it, and I only found it a few days ago when I’d gone in to the office to fill out the forms for your medical leave," Athos explains. "There was a letter inside, to you from Antonia Marks, written after she’d poisoned you, expressing her shame and regret, explaining that all information she had about you and Constance would be destroyed. She said that she was leaving the country and that she’d never bother you again. She must have written the letter, posted it to Whitehall and then in the evening I can only assume that they’d tried to leave the country in the car they’d rented only to be run off the road by Marcheaux’s hired thug.” 

D’Artagnan takes a few moments to absorb this information and again feels a deep sense of regret over the young woman’s death, yet another victim of a cruel and half-mad megalomaniac who thought he could control and manipulate the lives of others for his own gain. His thoughts immediately go to her father and he asks Athos about him.

“Her name has been cleared and she’d been posthumously reinstated to her position so her pension fund was paid to her father. Treville also reimbursed him for the funeral costs for both her and her partner and made sure that the news reports included their names as more of Rochefort’s innocent victims.”

“And Rochefort did all of this simply to get revenge on Treville? I find that very hard to believe,” d’Artagnan says thoughtfully. “He must have had something more to gain.”

“And yet it really was all about Treville. Rochefort was forced to leave Team 2 for gross incompetence, an agent was killed as a result, and you know that Treville played a part in his removal, he simply never got over it, it drove him mad eventually and he began to use and manipulate those under him in the MoD to reach his goal; expose Team 3 to the criminal world, and discredit Treville himself. Lemay nicked some paper files before the prosecutors swept in, he found handwritten complaints against Treville, some fabricated and some based on fact but cleverly distorted and apparently he’d planned to hand it all over to Louis. The man was simply insane.”

“Athos, he may be gone but what if he tries to expose us anyway? He knows who we are,” d’Artagnan says worriedly, his thoughts immediately going to Constance and her safety.

“The program you and the others created keeps us all safe from an internet leak. And it’s highly unlikely he’ll go knocking on doors and offering us up to terrorists, not with a million pound reward on his head, he knows even the most disgruntled of our enemies would give him up in a heartbeat in order to collect the reward. We’re safe from him, lad, I promise.” 

Athos is using the remote control and lowering the back of his bed slowly and d’Artagnan is grateful. He is in pain and he’s sleepy and he suddenly just wants to be alone. Especially if it’s not Constance in the chair beside him.  
“Porthos will be by later. Also, you’ve got two new phones, work and personal, in the bedside table. All our previous devices needed to be destroyed, just in case. Porthos set them both up exactly as you’d had them. Tomorrow I’ll bring you a laptop so you can keep busy,” Athos tells him, leaning close, a ghost of a brotherly kiss placed on the side of his forehead. When he pulls back, one hand reaches out and pushes the tangled hair away from d’Artagnan’s face, the show of affection so odd for Athos it nearly brings tears to the younger man’s eyes.

“Athos?” 

“Yes, lad?”

D’Artagnan pries his droopy lids with difficulty because there is something he must say. “I’m sorry…about everything, about what I did, but mostly about your family.”

“You remember all that, do you,” the older man muses. “I wasn’t sure if you would, you were having a very bad day,” he says somewhat ironically since that is a huge understatement. 

“I do, and I promise to keep it to myself,” he says with a yawn, “until you’re ready to tell the others.”

Athos nods and squeezes his hand. “Thank you, I appreciate that. I owe you an apology as well, I let my emotions get the best of me and I came down on you very hard, you didn’t deserve that, not after what you’d been though.”

“You had every right, I was…reckless, and I fucked up, there’s no dancing around it, Athos, and whatever the consequences I’ll face them,” d’Artagnan tells him earnestly.

“Child, enough, it’s over, you only need to worry about getting well and back on your feet. Sleep, I’ll be back tomorrow, if you’re unwell or if you need something have them ring me, alright?”

D’Artagnan thinks he replies, he’s not sure though because in a few seconds he’s out like a light.


	8. Chapter 8

D’Artagnan was confident that after two years of military service that included six months of dodging bullets in Afghanistan, and another five years in the complex business of espionage, escaping the military hospital that’s been his home for the past month would be a piece of cake. It would have been, of course, if he didn’t have the mobility of his beloved eighty-five year old Nana and very limited resources at his disposal. That, and the steady flow of visitors that never left him alone in the daytime hours. Even Ellie started popping by with Porthos, a couple of times with Marie in tow, and d’Artagnan has spent a few very pleasant afternoons in the small solarium outside colouring with the little girl and thinking wistfully of the children that he and Constance might have had. 

He’s asked to be discharged repeatedly, at least for a day or two, but all his requests have been denied. His injuries, the doctors explain patiently to him, were far too extensive for him to be without medical supervision at this point; apparently he’ll be stuck there for at least another two weeks, maybe more. And besides, they remind him, he has just begun the rehabilitation that focuses on everyday things like walking and taking care of himself - something that he’d only recently been able to do unaided he admits to himself – as well the strict nutritional program he’s on since he’s lost a substantial amount of weight, most of it muscle. None of his brothers support the idea of him going home with Athos anyway at this point, not until he’s stronger, since the rest of the team are back at work and Athos wouldn’t be available round the clock in case of an emergency.

“I don’t need a fucking babysitter,” D’Artagnan spits angrily when Porthos reminds him of this.

“Then don’t _act_ like a baby,” Porthos berates him over breakfast in the hospital cafeteria. 

D’Artagnan gives him the stink eye. “I’ve ‘ad it, Porthos, I’m going mad, please brother, get me out of here.”

“I can’t, d’Artagnan, it’s outta my ‘ands, ask Athos,” he suggests.

“Athos won’t help me, he thinks as long as I’m in ‘ere, I’m staying out of ‘trouble’ as he put it,” d’Artagnan says with displeasure. “Apparently I’m on his _naughty_ list at the moment.”

Porthos snorts out a laugh. “You’re on mine as well, mate, just because I ‘aven’t had a go at you yet doesn’t mean I don’t want to give you the thrashing you deserve.”

D’Artagnan sighs loudly. “Take a number then,” he says bitterly, thoroughly disheartened that everyone he cares about most are waiting to extract their ‘pound of flesh’ as Athos had put it. 

“I’m dead serious, boy, you owe me one ‘ell of an apology,” Porthos says, his expression stern, “and if you weren’t so banged up I’d ‘ave already given you the what for,” he adds. “But at the end of the day we’re brothers, lad, and you know damn well that even though you’re a massive twat and you don’t deserve it…I love you,” the big man says quietly. There’s a pause and Porthos lets out a long breath before he continues. “I never ‘ad any siblings, parents long gone, and you lot have become my family, I’d die for any of you, but you especially are gonna worry me into an early grave.”

Porthos’ confession doesn’t surprise him, d’Artagnan knows that Porthos means every single word he’s just said and the feeling is fiercely mutual. The five of them have a bond deeper than friendship and he knows that any one of them would lay down their life for any of the others, that they _all_ love each other as only a family can, but if he was to look back over the past four years it’s always been Porthos, from day one, steadily by his side. Even as Athos and Aramis were still sizing him up, trying to work out what they made of him, a boy still really, and a brash one at that, Porthos was there, worrying about him, listening to him when he’d felt insecure and defending him when he’d done something stupid and his heart aches for what he’s put his brother through. Porthos deserves that apology and much, much more. 

“You know it’s the same for me though, don’t you?” d’Artagnan says sincerely. “Most of the reckless stuff is because I worry about the lot of you, the rest of you ‘ave gone decrepit, it’s up to us youngsters to keep you safe, innit?” he says, referring to him and Constance and _ouch_ that hurts, every thought of her is like a knife in his gut, and sadly he literally knows what that feels like and it’s not pleasant.

Porthos nods slowly. “I know, d’Artagnan, trust me, I know,” he replies. “And it ends here, boy, or you’re done.”

D’Artagnan doesn’t reply, he can’t, his throat has tightened painfully as he thinks of all the things that have come to an end. He needs to get out of the blasted hospital today.

D’Artagnan carefully crosses his arms over his sore chest, one leg bouncing nervously under the table. “Do you think you can bring me some regular clothes? Wearing pyjamas all day is depressing,” he says when he finds his voice again, hoping that Porthos will feel sorry for him, and promising the universe it was the last time he’d ever manipulate those he loves, but clothes will get him one step closer to the door.

Pothos sighs. “A’rght, I’ll go by the house and get you some stuff, I’ll bring them by tomorrow, yeah?”

“Thanks, mate, it means a lot,” d’Artagnan tells him sincerely. “And some cash and my debit card, top drawer of my desk, I want to order a new laptop,” he lies, feeling like an utter wanker, and Porthos nods affirmatively. 

That was yesterday and as promised Porthos has come by on his way to the MoD, where the Team has a meeting with Treville at noon, d’Artagnan’s rucksack in tow. Everything is in his favour he thinks with child-like glee; everyone will be busy with Treville, his debit card and a few hundred quid are in his bag as well as the leather jacket he’d been wearing that fateful day he’d met with Antonia at Southbank. He hurriedly dresses in jeans that are massive on him – thank goodness for the belt – and a soft blue hoody. He slips the cash and his work phone into his leather jacket and hides his (ridiculously) long hair in a black beanie that Aramis had brought him for his walks outside in the garden and slides his feet into the new trainers Athos had bought him for his physio. There’s no time to shave so his four day-old beard has to stay. He walks out of his room casually, and makes his way to the stairs, staying clear of the lift where someone might recognise him. 

Once outside he walks as fast as his weakened state allows until he finds the nearest bus shelter and scans the route on the map. The closest station is Shepherd’s Bush and he knows he can get the train to Guilford from there via Clapham Junction. 

He’ll need to ride the bus for two stops, get the train at Shepherd’s Bush, change at Clapham Junction for Guildford Station where he’ll need a taxi home he thinks, but his earlier confidence is waning as fast as his stamina is. Barging in on Constance might be a terrible mistake. He must speak to her though, it’s been a month and she hasn’t even bothered to text him. Athos told him to give her time but patience is not one of d’Artagnan’s strong points. He’s going mental wondering what she’s thinking…and planning. 

Only he’s forgotten one small detail; he has no keys. He doesn’t even remember the last time he had his house keys; was it the morning they’d met at Athos’ or had Constance locked up, he has no idea because he simply can’t recall, one more item to add to the list of things that have been wiped away by physical trauma and emotional chaos.

He’s actually already on the first train when he remembers the keys and it’s too late to turn back so he continues on home. Two hours later he finds himself paying the taxi driver outside of his house and the steady drizzle in London has become a downpour in Guildford. He’s exhausted, soaked, starving and he rings the bell, hoping that maybe Constance has made it there before him. When she doesn’t answer he goes around the house to the shed and finds it, as he’d hoped, unlocked since he’d left his bike in the storeroom of the pub. He shuts the door behind him, flips on the light and he unfolds one of the two dusty camp beds so he can sit for a bit. His hair and clothes are sodden and he tosses the beanie aside and takes off his jacket, hanging it on a hook on the door to dry. He shivers, the old shed is damp and drafty and he feels the dull throb of pain in his chest. He gets up and has a quick look in the locker on the other wall and finds a worn but clean blanket they used to use for picnics and he wraps it around himself gratefully. It’s 4pm and he figures Constance should probably be home in an hour, two at the most, so he sits back down on the cot to wait. Shouldn’t be long now, he thinks tiredly and he slumps back against the wall to rest a bit. Within seconds, he’s fast asleep.

 

********************************************

 

“Whoever you are, come out slowly because I have a gun aimed directly at you.”

That’s what d’Artagnan hears when he is woken by someone pounding on the door to the shed. It takes him a moment to orient himself and it’s so cold that he is shivering too hard to even speak.

“Come out now!” he hears again and he realises with a jolt that it’s Constance.

“Constance, it’s me,” he says feebly, teeth chattering. “Don’t shoot.”

The door opens abruptly and Constance is standing there, her weapon lowered but still in her hand. Her expression goes from shocked to worried immediately when she takes in the state of him.

“You idiot, what the hell are you doing here? You’ll catch pneumonia!” she hisses furiously. She grabs his jacket and puts it around his shoulders before she helps him to his feet. “Inside, now!” she commands and he allows her to pull him towards the kitchen door. Once inside she marches him into the living room and gently pushes him down onto the sofa. 

“Don’t move,” she warns him sternly, “I’ll be right back.”

He can’t move even if he wanted to; everything hurts and he’s wet and freezing, and he has no intention of even trying.

Constance returns with a pile of his own clothes and proceeds to take the jacket and then the blanket off his shoulders and she gently strips him of his hoody. She gasps when she sees the long, red slash down his sternum and is visibly shaken by the sternotomy scar. D’Artagnan feels uncomfortably self-conscious and he takes the jersey she is holding and slides it on himself, quickly covering the ugly mess on his chest. He grabs the pyjama bottoms she is holding as well and carefully removes his sodden socks, trainers and jeans and slips his freezing legs into the familiar soft cotton fabric. Constance busies herself collecting his clothes and avoids eye contact until he's fully dressed. She takes his wet things to the kitchen and returns with the soft fleece blanket they use when they watch TV. She nudges him silently to swing his legs up so he’s lying down and tucks the blanket around him.

“I saw the light in the shed,” she says quietly, sitting down on the coffee table. “I thought you were a thief.”

“I don’t have keys…” he says by way of explanation, “I can’t remember where I left them.”

Constance nods. “They’re here, on the peg in the kitchen.”

“Right.”

They remain like that, silent, the sound of the boiler kicking on the only noise in the house. D’Artagnan has so much to say but nothing that would make sense, he fears. Constance, he notes, has changed out of her City clothes and is wearing a grey track suit, her hair tucked up in a bun. She still has her makeup on and her eye liner is smudged. He longs to reach out and wipe away the smoky black pencil that’s painted dark rings under her blue eyes but resists by keeping his hands firmly tucked under the blanket.

He clears his throat and decides it’s now or never. “I, um, I haven’t seen you in a while and I thought I’d pop in and see how you’re doing,” he begins and immediately cringes inwardly at how lame he sounds. 

“D’Artagnan, how did you even get here? According to Athos you are supposed to be in hospital for at least another two weeks.”

“Athos? He told you…”

“No,” she says abruptly, “he told Treville at our meeting this afternoon. So why did they decide to discharge you today?” she asks, clearly unsettled. 

D’Artagnan swings his legs over the side of the sofa and pushes the blanket away. “Look, I wanted to see you. It’s been a month and you haven’t called or even texted. If we’re over I think I deserve for you to say it to my face.” There, it’s done, he’s said it and now the ball is in her court.

Constance is silent and her expression reveals nothing of what she is thinking. She gets to her feet and walks around to the other side of the coffee table, obviously wanting to put some distance between them. “D’Artagnan, it’s really not the right time to discuss this. You’re probably exhausted, I’m going to ring Athos to pick you up so you can get some rest.”

“You’re not calling anyone. If you want me to piss off, just say so and I’ll go,” he tells her flatly, feeling incensed by her insinuation that he needs someone to look after him. “I’m not anyone’s responsibility but my own. I can come and go as I please, when I please.” 

“Yes, you’ve made that perfectly clear haven’t you? You make your own choices, don’t you, regardless of the consequences,” she replies, her earlier stoicism replaced by fury, “it’s what you do, innit, run into burning buildings and jump on hand grenades…”

“You sound ridiculous, I’ve never done anything like that…”

“No, but you might as well have, since you chose leave me and Porthos in the fucking barn and decided that you were more effective as a one man team.”

D’Artagnan gets to his feet and runs his hands through his hair in frustration. “You know that’s not why I did it…I did it to protect you…both of you, from the fire and those murderous bastards! It was stupid and reckless and I know I was wrong but it wasn’t ego or pride, I did it out of fear for your safety! The mother fucker Marcheaux spent his last minutes telling me what he was going to do to you by the way and it’s wasn’t anything pretty!”

“We didn’t need you to protect us, you idiot! When will you get that through your head? You’ve done stupid things before but this was the cherry on top, d’Artagnan, this was the moment where I realised that if I stay with you I will spend the rest of my life out of my head with worry that one day you’ll probably get yourself killed to save an ‘effin cockroach!”

“You’re exaggerating…I’m not…”

“That scar on your face doesn’t say it all? You and that idiot Porthos could have been killed because you insisted on blowing up a terrorist’s rucksack yourselves instead of waiting for the bomb squad! They showed up one minute later…”

“There were lives at stake! If we hadn’t moved it out of the way a crowd people would have been killed! It’s what we do!”

“What we were supposed to do is move the crowd back and leave a 200 meter perimeter, which was what the rest of us were trying to do when you grabbed the bag. Porthos went mental because he didn’t know what you were thinking and he followed you! The both of you were in hospital for 10 days. I almost left you then, I was sorely tempted, but you promised me you wouldn’t do it again, remember? Remember that, d’Artagnan??”

Constance, visibly shaken by her outburst, takes a few steps back and reaches for her mobile which is sitting on the dining room table. “Look, you need to go, I can’t do this now…and you’re clearly unwell, I’m sure you signed yourself out,” she says finally. “Let me ring Athos to come take you back.”

“I need some things from upstairs and then I’ll go. What I don’t need is anyone to take me back,” he tells her coldly. Without waiting for her response he goes upstairs and finds that Constance has put all of his things in his own bedroom. He can barely muster up the energy to care as he dresses quickly, grabbing another pair of trainers and a jacket from his closet and some more cash from his desk drawer and leaves, walking straight out the front door without even bothering to tell Constance he is going. It’s all too much; he’s clearly made a mistake by coming here, unannounced and with his heart on his sleeve and in all honesty he feels like death warmed over. He’s halfway down the street when he realises that his phone is in his leather jacket back at the house but he simply doesn’t care. Fortunately the rain has stopped so he trudges on, making his way to the station on foot since he has no way to call a taxi. 

It takes him a half hour to make the 15 minute walk and by the time he gets to the station he can barely stand. But his pride won’t allow him to ask for help so he buys a one-way ticket back to London and drags himself the last few feet to the platform. When the train rolls up he hears someone call his name, not his pseudonym but his real name. He knows it’s Athos, he is the only one who would use that name but he’s too overwhelmed to deal with another round of debating his ability to make his own choices and take care of himself.  
He steps onto the train and doesn’t look back.

 

***********************************************************

 

When he stumbles into the hospital a few hours later he doesn’t protest when he’s met in reception by a uniformed soldier who gently pushes him into a wheel chair. 

“The whole hospitals’ been looking for you, mate, they were ready to call the police,” the young squaddie tells him with a grin. 

He’s back in his room when Jess and another nurse, Matthew have a go at him while helping him into his pyjamas and into bed. He ends up with a drip in his arm when it’s determined that he has low blood sugar and he’s mildly dehydrated. When it’s all said and done and Jess is turning out the lights, d’Artagnan calls her back.

“I need a favour, yeah?”

“Sure, luv, how can I help?”

“No visitors for the next few days, can you put that on my door…and tell the other nurses?”

Jess frowns. “Are you feeling that poorly, luv? Because if you are I need to get a doctor in here straight away.”

“No, I’m fine, really,” he replies and she visibly relaxes. “I want to focus on my PT so I can get out of this place,” he lies smoothly. “My mates come and stay for hours and I end up missing my sessions.”

Jess nods knowingly. “I’ll put a notice on the door and make a note on your chart. Now get some sleep.”

D’Artagnan gives her a grateful smile. “Thanks.”

“It’s no bother, luv, good night,” she says kindly and she leaves.

D’Artagnan is too wired to sleep even though his body is begging for rest. His mind is playing the last few hours over and over in his head and he berates himself for his stupidity. First and foremost if he wants his independence back he needs to get well. He’s had enough of being an invalid fussed over like a toddler. And he knows that he will never be taken seriously again if he doesn’t learn to curb his impulsiveness. Today he’d made a major mistake. He put his recovery at risk and he put Constance on the defensive by catching her off guard. He needs a few days alone, to think and focus and set his head straight. It’s time to get his life back in order and no one can help him but himself.

 

***********************************************

 

“What do you mean ‘e can’t have visitors? I was ‘ere yesterday, what’s wrong with ‘im?”

D’Artagnan is sitting on a plastic chair just inside of the door and he can hear Porthos practically roaring on the other side, out in the hallway. He has his face in his hands and he’s fighting the urge to just get up and let him in but he can’t do that. He can hear the arguing continuing and at some point someone starts pounding on the door. D’Artagnan grabs his phone and earbuds and opens Spotify, and he tries to drown out the sound.

This continues for at least a week, every day someone else, sometimes it’s two of them, once all three and the worst day was when Treville came. D’Artagnan was returning from his physical therapy session and he had to hide in a linen closet for twenty minutes until Athos, Aramis and Treville had departed. By the second week the visits stop but the text messages still flood his phone. One day before he is set to be released Constance texts him. D’Artagnan deletes the message without reading it. 

The day he is released he thanks everyone personally. He goes from floor to floor, from ward to ward, thanking the nurses, the doctors, the physical therapists, the cleaners and the squaddies who guard the facility. After 6 weeks, give or take, there isn’t one person that he doesn’t know. Everyone wishes him well; half of them beg him to get a decent haircut, the other half tell him to eat pasta and ice cream every day until he puts some weight back. His main physical therapist gives him a list of NHS and private rehabilitation facilities near the sublet he’d arranged through the internet and threatens to drag him there himself if he doesn’t start immediately. He carefully packs all his things into two rucksacks and orders an Uber. 

The sublet is a studio that’s a 5 minute walk from his parent’s house in the suburbs of North London. He’s desperate to see them but needs a little more time so he doesn’t frighten them with his noticeably thinner frame. The neighbourhood is quiet and the flat is a three story walk up, which is fine because he really needs the exercise. There’s furniture and bedding and the small kitchen has all the essentials. The roof slopes on either side and d’Artagnan thinks he’s going to have to be very careful when he gets out of bed in the dark. He empties his bags onto the bed and takes stock; three t shirts, one zip-up hoody, two pairs of jeans, including the one he's wearing, and some underwear, socks and toiletries. He’d left all of his pyjamas at the hospital to be donated to charity so he’s going to have to order something to sleep in and some track suits for PT as well as some food from Sainsbury's. He has the laptop that Athos had brought him as soon as he could sit up and his personal phone. He doesn’t think anything else will be necessary. 

The bathroom is small and the mirror is a little bit too low for his height. He hunches over a little and takes a good look. Fortunately he no longer looks particularly pale and sickly. There are still dark smudges under his eyes but he thinks those will fade soon, now that he has a decent sized bed to sleep in. The scar, of course, is still there, stamped clearly on his face to remind him, every time he looks in the mirror or sees his reflection in a window, of his work at the Agency, his friendships and his relationship with Constance. It’s all very tangled together; work, friends, love, it’s no wonder everything seems overwhelming. He sees d’Artagnan the spy, he sees the young man that Athos (fondly) calls child, there’s Constance’s first and only lover, the soldier and the computer scientist and the boy who used to make soup in the kitchen of his family’s cafe - _“I’m going to the chef here one day”_ – but none of those things are really him, not anymore. He hears irresponsible, selfish, reckless, hot headed, childish, he’s heard all the adjectives and he accepts that yes, he is all of those things and probably more. 

D’Artagnan wonders if he needs a shrink; the Agency has their own people, because telling some unsuspecting civilian _“Hi, my name is d’Aratgnan, like in the stories, and I’m a fucked-up spy, pleased to meet you,”_ isn’t going to go over well. Then there’s the fact that he doesn’t really think he can change all that much. He actually did run into a burning building once - not that he’ll ever admit that to Constance of course – to save his cousin’s puppy. He was 13, and he’d spent the next fifteen years doing pretty much the same thing; act first, think about consequences later. It had become a theme in his life and now it had caught up with him. Time to pay the piper.

He shuts the light in the toilet and looks around for his phone. First step in his new lease on life; get his full physical strength back. He fishes the folded paper with the list of PT specialists from his pocket and smooths it out on the table. Step two; reconnect with his family who are furious and suspicious. His mum will be the next phone call he makes. Step three and the hardest; keep his distance from Constance and the others until he feels like he actually has something to contribute to their lives. 

With the list of numbers in front of him, d’Artagnan swipes his screen, enters his pass code and takes the first step.


	9. Chapter 9, Epilogue and Teaser for part 2

Chapter 9 – Four Months Later

“You know, this new job seems to agree with you,” his mum comments when d’Artagnan walks into the café for Sunday brunch. His family’s café is full to capacity, as always, but Rosa steers him to the small single she’s held for him every weekend since his return to London. 

D’Artagnan gives her a hug and she plants an affectionate kiss on his unshaven jaw. “I just wish you’d shave more often, you look scruffy, it’s unprofessional,” she tells him, her accent more middle-class North London and less the Italian of her birthplace. “At least your hair is…neater,” she says with a grimace, as she takes in his pony tail that holds half his hair back. 

“There’s no pleasing you is there, Mama,” he says with a half smile, flopping into the comfortable club chair that was his on Sundays. “I thought you said ‘the new job agrees with you’ just a moment ago?”

“Yes, you’re finally looking like your old, fit self, not like the boy who showed up at the house after a 3 month absence looking frightfully ill. That flu you had while you were working in Spain truly wiped you out.”

Sometimes it’s hard keeping track of the lies, D’Artagnan thinks with a pang, as his mother pours him steaming hot coffee. This lie had been Athos’ doing though, back when he was in hospital and D’Artagnan had no choice but to run with it. The day he’d shown up on his parents’ doorstep two and a half months prior had been the first time he’d seen them in 3 months. He gave them a cock and bull story about being busy with work, then sent to Spain for a training course, where he’d caught the flu that laid him up for weeks. They were thrilled to hear that he’d moved back to London and just a few streets away but clearly upset to see him physically depleted and sans Constance. His mum had tried to discuss it with him numerous times but his dad was more understanding and let it go until d’Artagnan was ready to talk about it. They have no idea that he’s not actually working at the moment but they do know that he goes to PT to build up his strength after his serious bout with the ‘flu’ and they are happy to see him looking healthy again so for the moment, both his parents seem to be content to leave his personal life alone. His brother is expected soon with his family for a week-long visit so that has his mum preoccupied anyway. D’Artagnan is looking forward to the visit; his brother lives in Newcastle with his wife and two sons and he’s missed them all terribly.

His dad comes out from the kitchen, a plate in each hand and lays the food down in front of him. “It’s a new recipe, a quiche with 4 cheeses and a handful of secret spices, let me know what you think,” he says, patting d’Artagnan on the back. “Good to see you, lad,” he tells him, before hurrying back to his noisy domain. His father runs a tight ship, but a happy one, and you could always hear friendly banter and laughter coming through the kitchen doors. 

D’Artagnan dives in hungrily, finishing off the quiche and salad in record time. He’s contemplating the apple pie he knows his mum has made fresh that morning when his phone rings. The sound startles him; he receives very few phone calls these days and two of the handful of people that call him regularly are with him. The caller id has no name but the number is as familiar as his own. The caller is persistent and D’Artagnan takes a deep breath and swipes the screen.

“Hello?” 

“It’s me, lad,” Athos says. “Look, I wouldn’t be bothering you but I thought you should know…” he begins but d’Artagnan doesn’t let him finish..

“Know what?” d’Artagnan asks, his heart in his throat. It must be something very bad if Athos is calling him after 4 months of radio silence on all sides.

“We’re in London, at the medical facility, there’s been an accident…” Athos explains but again, d’Artagnan is too impatient with fear to let him continue.

“Who?” he asks hoarsely, feeling weak at the knees as he makes his way towards the door, his mother calling after him. No matter what name Athos says he is sure he will lose his brunch on the sidewalk. But if it’s Constance…..  
“Who Athos!” he demands when the older man doesn’t reply at once. 

“Porthos and Constance…but calm yourself, please,” Athos soothes. “It wasn’t that bad, they’re…”

“I’ll be there in 20,” he manages to say, shuts the phone and practically runs the two blocks to the high street to get a taxi. It takes 35 minutes due to traffic even though it’s a Sunday and d’Artagnan spends the entire ride arguing with the driver over the route he’s taken and chewing on the Rennie that he always has in his pocket these days. By the time he gets there he’s sweating even though it’s unseasonably cool for July and his hands are shaking as he pays the driver. He barrels into the A&E and starts looking for Athos. 

Not surprisingly he’s recognised by the squaddies guarding the door and when he tells them that he’s looking for two friends who were in an accident, one of them guides him to a waiting area where Athos, Aramis and Porthos, the latter with a bandage on his forehead and his arm in a sling, are sitting on a black sofa, their expressions tense as they listen to a doctor, who d’Artagnan recognises as a trauma specialist. 

Constance is nowhere to be seen and d’Artagnan jumps to conclusions that turn his legs into jelly. He takes two more steps towards the wall where he leans heavily, his knees buckling beneath him and he ends up landing heavily on his ass. He must have made a sound because seconds later, he is surrounded by four anxious faces.  
“Is she…Athos, is she…,” he chokes out, the words lost in his throat and tears stinging his eyes.

“You idiot,” Aramis says with affection, reaching down to pull d’Artagnan to his feet. “Always so dramatic.” The older man tugs d’Artagnan into his embrace and hugs him tight. “She’s fine.”

“Then why…,” he says, gesturing to the doctor, a middle-aged woman named Dr. Adams he recalls, who’s grabbed his wrist and is checking his pulse and clucking her tongue, “what were you talking about, and where is Constance?”

Aramis guides him back to the lounge. “You’re about a minute away from passing out, lad,” the doctor scolds him and he lets Aramis push him gently back onto the sofa. “The young lady in question is fine. As I’ve told your friends she has a mild concussion and nothing more. We’ve done a CT scan and a full work up and everything is normal. Someone get him a juice or a chocolate, I have other patients to see,” she tells Athos before she leaves.

“Porthos, are you alright?” d’Artagnan asks anxiously, mentally kicking himself for not asking sooner.

“Fine, mate, jarred my shoulder and got a cut on my forehead, nothing worse,” Porthos explains to d’Artagnan, who sinks back into the cushions and lets out a long breath. 

“I thought the worst when you rang me,” he tells Athos.

“Well I would have explained, child, had you not hung up on me,” Athos replies succinctly. 

D’Artagnan grimaces. “Yeah, well you scared the crap out of me. Can I see her?” he asks him tentatively.  
“Yes, in a bit, they’re still looking her over.”

“What about you, then? You’re a sight for sore eyes, lad,” Aramis says. “And you look significantly better than the last time I saw you, are you eating your spinach and taking your vitamins and all that?” he teases.

“I’m fine, good as new,” d’Artagnan grouses, not wanting to discuss the state of his health. He is fine and between his parents and his physical therapist he gets enough nagging, thank you very much.

“Well that’s good ‘cause now I’m gonna kick your bony arse right back into this place. Why the fuck did you shut us out?” Porthos says angrily. “We were outta our heads worrying, how could you do that?”

D’Artagnan knew that this was coming sooner or later, he’s hoped later but probably best to just deal with it and get it over with. “I uh, I was in a dark place, Porthos, and I was feeling sorry for myself. I thought if maybe I spent some time apart from everyone, it would help,” d’Artagnan says by way of explanation, but he knows that it sounds lame and insufficient.

Porthos nods his head. “In a dark place? Who told you to say that, your yogi? We were going fucking mental worried that you were gonna to do something stupid again, like you did when you snuck outta ‘ere,” the big man tells him, “and you spout off some crap you heard on Dr. Phil?”

“I’m sorry, a’right? Constance dumped me, Athos told me I’m out of commission for almost a year and I could barely take a piss on my own, so yeah, I was feeling sorry for myself and I wanted to be alone. If you want to hold that against me there’s nothing I can do,” d’Artagnan says defensively. “If it makes you feel better, I felt like shit as well, it’s all been so fucking ‘ard, especially since it took me weeks to be able to do the smallest things for myself.”

“You didn’t have to be alone, lad, Athos was planning to…” Aramis began, but d’Artagnan cut him off angrily.

“Yes, yes, Athos was going to take me home with him like some lost and rejected three-legged puppy, I know all that, but I needed to think as well, I’ve made mistakes in the past, some of them nearly cost me my life, some of them cost me my chance at happiness,” he said, referring to Constance without saying her name outright, “and I’d ‘oped that the lot of you would understand my need to be on my own for a bit.”

Athos nods slowly and sits on the sturdy coffee table in front of d’Artagnan. “Alright, lad, but are you done being on your own? Because you’ve been missed, you know,” the older man tells him kindly. “And I’m truly sorry if I treated you like a ‘three-legged puppy’; you are our youngest, and our and most reckless, and I’ve always had to worry more about you than anyone else on this team. You’ve probably saved more lives than the rest of us combined but you’ve given me an ulcer while doing so.”

“Yeah well I’m truly sorry for that. If it makes you feel any better I’ve been punished tenfold for it,” d’Artagnan says, trying hard not to sound bitter and self-pitying. 

“Are you referring to your injuries or to Constance?” Athos questions. “Because I’ve told you to be patient with her, you nearly died, for the umpteenth time, she needed time to sort out her feelings and her anger. If it’s any comfort, she’s been miserable.”

D’Artagnan shakes his head slowly, his stomach churning, and he feels utterly dejected. “Of course that’s no comfort, even apart I’ve always wanted her to be ‘appy. I love her too much to want anything less.”

“Maybe if you stopped throwing yourself in front of bullets she could actually be happy,” Constance says flatly. She’s in a wheelchair, dressed in jeans and light yellow jersey and holding a stack of papers, a square bandage on the left side of her forehead. The orderly who is wheeling her brings her into the lounge and then leaves quietly.

“Are you alright, luv?” Aramis asks, rushing forward. “They’re sending you home?”

“Yup, I’ve been discharged, can you give someone these papers I’ve signed?” she asks Aramis, obviously exhausted.

“Of course. In fact I think Porthos has some papers to sign as well,” Aramis says and although the bigger man looks like he’s about to protest, he sighs and follows along, bless him, d’Artagnan thinks fondly.

“Yeah, let’s get it done, come on Athos, you’ll need to fill in the employer stuff,” he tells the older man. Athos raises one brow but doesn’t object and the three of them disappear, leaving Constance and d’Artagnan alone for the first time in months.

“For fuck’s sake, Constance, should you even be out of bed? This is mad, sending you home with a concussion!” d’Artagnan says anxiously, going down on one knee in front of her wheelchair. “I know the head of Trauma, he and I played X-box on his breaks when I was stuck in ‘ere, I’ll speak with him about keeping you overnight at least,” he says with conviction. She looks exhausted and pale and it’s obvious there are butterfly stitches under the bandage on her head. “How did this even ‘appen? No one bothered to tell me.”

“Calm down, you idiot! I’m fine and they’re sending me home because they need the bed and I told them I had someone to stay with me. As for how it happened, some half-blind pensioner ran a red light while Porthos and I were on our way home from a night of surveillance. Grandad walked away from it without a scratch, though Porthos almost gave him a heart attack that’s for sure.”

“You shouldn’t be alone, and Porthos either, you never know with a head injury.”

Constance sighs loudly. “Athos is going home with Porthos and Aramis with me, satisfied?”

This is his chance, his opening, he realizes, and he might not get another one anytime soon, so he just says it. “You can come home with me,” he says hurriedly, “I live nearby, you know in case you’re not feeling well,” he says earnestly, hoping against all hope that she will agree. 

Constance looks at him quizzically. “You live nearby?”

D’Artagnan smiles sheepishly. “Well, near my parents, but it’s just 20 minutes by taxi from here, it’s a sublet and it’s small…but it’s cozy! And I think you’ll be comfortable there, I have a big bed, I mean there’s a big bed, for you to use, I’ll take the sofa of course,” he continues, fully aware that he is babbling but that doesn’t stop the verbal diarrhea from flowing. “That doesn’t matter though, because I won’t be sleeping, not with you ‘aving a head injury…oh and there’s a Tescos ‘round the corner so I can get you whatever you might need, and …”

“Oh my God, stop, you sound like you’re on crack! Alright, I’ll come with you, mostly because I can’t stand the idea of going all the way back to Guildford with this headache,” she tells him matter of factly.

He grins, a huge toothy smile that feels so strange on his face since he hasn’t smiled like that in a very long time. “Brilliant, I’ll ring for a taxi then…” he says, pulling out his phone. He calls the service his mum uses since they are respectable, he doesn’t want to take a chance with an Uber since he’s had a few dodgy rides with them. When the others return and he explains that he’s taking Constance home with him, d’Artagnan steels himself for an argument from either Athos or Aramis, but to his surprise, neither of them protest. They all crowd around her and press kisses to her cheeks but leave promptly, anxious to get a now-exhausted and decidedly moody Porthos back home. 

“I’ve got my eye on you, brother,” Porthos whispers to him as they walk out of the hospital.

D’Artagnan nods. “You’ve got nothing to worry about, I’d die for her and you know it,” he says fiercely.

Porthos flinches visibly. “Maybe that’s what I’m afraid of?” the other man tells him wearily. “Just behave, and ring to let us know that she’s ok.” 

“Of course.”

Porthos nods. “I’ve missed you…you stupid twat, I still can’t believe you Houdinied on us. Was it so hard to let us know, let me know that you were a’right?” 

D’Artagnan winces at his friend’s words, and his unsettled stomach lurches. “I’m sorry, truly, I’ve missed you too, brother, it’s been awful being alone,” he admits. “But you need rest, go home and get a good night’s sleep, I swear I’ll see you tomorrow when I bring Constance back, yeah?”

Porthos squeezes his shoulder and nods and lets Aramis lead him to the car. 

Their taxi arrives and d’Artagnan guides Constance into the back of a shiny, new hybrid, their driver an older chap who fawns all over her once he realizes she’s been hurt. He gets them home in 25 minutes and even opens the door for them, waiting until d'Artagnan has his keys in the lock before pulling away.

“Maybe I should get hurt more often, it seems to attract lots of male attention,” she saying teasingly as she follows him inside.

“Um, please don’t,” he says with a grimace. “I, er, I failed to mention that it’s three flights up,” he tells her, embarrassed, “I don’t mind carrying you if it’s too much…”

“You’re joking, of course,” she tells him, giving him the stink eye and she moves past him and starts up the stairs. d'Artagnan sticks close to her, afraid she might get wobbly and fall, but they make it to the top floor without incident. D’Artagnan unlocks the door to the flat and leads her inside.

“It’s kind of small but it has everything I need…” he tells her, tossing takeaway cartons in the bin with an embarrassed grin. “Sorry about the mess, I’ve been busy and haven’t had a chance to tidy up or…”

“D’Artagnan, I need to lie down,” she tells him, cutting off yet another bout of verbal diarrhoea, and he rushes to pull back the bedclothes so that she can get into his bed. 

“I um, changed the sheets two days ago, I can put clean ones if you like?”

Constance laughs. “Only if you’ve been shagging on them, otherwise it’s fine.”

D’Artagnan goes completely rigid. “Shagging who? I…it’s been only a few months since…well, you don’t honestly think I’ve been messing around, do you?” he asks her, feeling horrified. Does this mean she’s been with other men? The thought hadn’t even crossed his mind and now that it has he feels physically ill and reaches for another Rennie.

“You’ve had two of those already, what’s wrong with your stomach?” she asks him, changing the subject. She kicks off her trainers and lies back with a sigh.

“Nothing is wrong, it’s just unsettled sometimes, probably from all those effin’ meds they were giving me,” he says distractedly, his mind still laser focused on the shagging thing.

“Toss them in the bin, if you really feel that sick you need to see a gastroenterologist,” she tells him. “Don’t self medicate, it only makes things worse.”

“Screw the antacids, Constance, and tell me why you suggested I’ve been shagging anyone?” he asks flatly.  
She gives him an unreadable look. “It was a joke, I didn’t mean anything by it.”

“Yes you did,” he challenges her, “you actually wanted to know if I’m sleeping with someone or someones. Just so you know, I ‘aven’t had sex or even wanted to have sex with anyone but you in over five years. I ‘aven’t moved on, if that’s what you’re thinking, because this thing with us, it’s still it for me, even if it’s not for you,” he tells her defensively, wondering if he’d made a huge mistake bringing her home with him. This conversation wasn’t supposed to take place until he was fully ready to return to work and he feels off-kilter and confused and damn, he wants a drink.

“Neither have I, if that’s what you want to know, D’Artagnan,” Constance replies after an awkward silence.  
“Why not? I told you why I ‘aven’t now you tell me why you ‘aven’t.”

“D’Artagnan, I have a horrible headache and I feel nauseous and overall like poop, can this please wait until tomorrow?” she implores. “And your dropping your H’s repeatedly which means you’re riled up.”

“Is it because of me or because you haven’t had the opportunity?” he asks insistently, putting emphasis on the h.

“If I didn’t feel like I’d gone 5 rounds in the ring I’d slug you for that question, you wanker. Of course it’s because of you!”

D’Artagnan throws himself on the sofa opposite the bed and buries his face in his hands, feeling like a complete ass. “I’m sorry, Constance, I’ve just been…well, it’s been forever since we’ve seen each other and I’ve missed you and I was jealous…” he says, trailing off, furious with himself for behaving like such a bastard. “Fuck, I’m so sorry.”

“Make us some tea, will you? I’m feeling queasy and I bet a good brew will settle your stomach as well,” she says quietly after a long, awkward silence. 

D’Artagnan springs off the sofa, grateful for something to do. He quickly cleans up the kitchen counter and washes it down before he starts to prepare the tea. He sets out the mugs and fills the kettle and looks over to ask her what kind of tea she’d like when he realises she’s fallen asleep. 

“Constance,” he says worriedly, rushing to sit beside her on the bed. Should he let her sleep? Bollocks, he’d forgotten to ask.

“Hmmn,” she groans in response to his gentle shaking. She mumbles something incoherent and snuggles into the light duvet he’s covered her with. 

There’s an envelope sticking out of her purse with the hospital’s logo stamped outside. He opens is and sees it’s her release form and he scans the hand written instructions on the bottom of the page. Apparently it’s alright for her to sleep but she should be checked every few hours for a list of truly terrifying symptoms. He sets the paper aside and pulls the duvet up to her neck.

D’Artagnan wants nothing more than to get into bed beside her and hold her while she sleeps but he knows it’s too soon for that. Instead, he presses a feather-light kiss to her uninjured brow and lowers the lights in the flat, settling himself on the sofa with the TV control and his laptop to keep watch over his precious charge.

 

**********************************************

 

“D’Artagnan.”

“mmmphhh”

“D’Artagnan, wake up.”

Constance! he registers at once and he bolts upright, slamming his head against the sloped ceiling over the sofa. “Fuckin ‘ell,” he moans, falling back down on his ass. 

“You clumsy idiot,” she chides, sitting down beside him. “Let me see,” she says and she runs her fingers through his hair, fingers searching for injuries.

“You’ll live,” she tells him, “but I’ll get you some ice for that bump.”

Completely disoriented, D’Artagnan looks around the flat. It’s dark outside and he doesn’t remember falling asleep. He had an alarm set to check on Constance just in case but he hadn’t intended on nodding off. The blinking lights on his alarm clock tell him it’s 12:15 am and he groans when he realises that he’d slept through the eleven o’clock alarm. Constance, however, appears to have been woken by it. She was wrapped in a bathsheet and d’Artagnan can smell his M&S Woodspice shower gel in the tiny flat. She’s wearing his slippers and has her hair tied in an elastic and clipped up with a plastic thingy he uses to seal open packets of crisps. The bandage on her brow now had a darkening bruise around it and his heart skips a few beats at the sight of her, in his flat, wearing almost nothing and standing very close to him.

“Here, hold this on the bump for a bit,” she tells him, handing over the towel with ice.

“Thanks,” he manages to say and takes it, placing the make-shift ice pack on the throbbing bump.

“I um, I’m sorry I woke you, but you were thrashing around and mumbling, looked like you were having a nightmare,” she explains apologetically. “Your alarm woke me, I hope you don’t mind I used your shower and all that.”

“Of course not, Constance! I um, I can give you some pyjamas or a t-shirt or something…” he says, tossing the ice aside. He rummages through his closet and pulls out a clean pyjama bottom and t-shirt that he hasn’t worn in a while since they are now too tight on his bulked-up frame. “I um, you’ll have to go commando though because I don’t have anything that would fit you to wear under them,” he tells her, embarrassed, scratching at the back of his neck. He hands her the clothes and then turns around to give her the privacy to get dressed. The towel with the ice is slowly melting on his sofa and he reaches for it just as Constance does. Dressed now, she pushes him back down onto the sofa and places the ice over the bump on his head, holding it firmly in place.

Constance is kneeling on the sofa beside him and their proximity is extremely unnerving. She’s not wearing a bra and he can practically see her generous breasts and dusky nipples through the thin white t-shirt he’d given her to wear. The fact that he knows she’s not wearing any knickers either is not helping his embarrassingly evident erection.

“I, er, I think I’ll shower as well,” he tells her nervously, “long day,” he mutters and he practically sprints to the bathroom where her drying undergarments are hanging on his towel rack, a lacy back bra and matching knickers. He shuts the door behind him with a loud thud and sits on the closed toilet seat, heart slamming in his chest and his dick taunting him painfully. He brushes his teeth until his mouth goes numb and then strips and gets into the shower, soaping himself up vigorously, waiting till the last minute to wash his groin because if he touches himself now he will surely come. The thought of wanking off with Constance in the next room makes him feel like a dirty old man, so he tries to will his hard cock to go limp, but to no avail. He finishes washing with the least amount of contact possible and he shuts off the water just as he hears the door to the bathroom open.

“Are you alright in there?” Constance asks, “Your head not bothering you?”

D’Artagnan literally wants the earth to open up and swallow him. Constance is two feet away from him on the other side of the curtain and his dick is literally weeping pre-come all over the bathtub and he thinks he might hyperventilate himself into a panic attack. 

“D’Artagnan, are you alright?” she asks, insistently.

“Um, yeah,” he replies hoarsely but it comes out more like a groan.

“D’Artagnan! Are you feeling dizzy or nauseous?” she demands.

He wants to reply but it’s like his brain and his mouth are not connected. Constance rips the shower curtain aside and surges forward, obviously afraid that the bump on his head has done some kind of damage. Instead she sees him in all his dripping and shivering wet glory, his aching cock standing at attention like a flag on a windy day.

“Oh, shit, I’m…sorry…” she says, obviously mortified, and she hands him a towel from the back on the door. When he doesn’t move to take it, her expression morphs from embarrassed to concerned.

“Come on, let’s get you out of there,” she says gently, taking one hand and helping him climb out of the tub. She puts another towel on the closed toilet lid and pushes him down to sit on it. He is still shivering in the chilly bathroom and remains silent as he lets Constance dry off his hair and shoulders before she drops the towel onto his lap. 

“Are you alright?” she asks softly.

He nods his head slowly. “Um, sorry about that,” he croaks. “I guess I did get a bit wobbly,” he lies. 

“Nothing to worry about,” she tells him with a smile, “come on, wrap that ‘round you and let’s get out of here, it’s claustrophobic in ‘ere, it is.”

She turns around and he quickly wraps the towel around his waist, his dick somewhat subdued finally. He follows Constance out of the bathroom and dresses quickly while she busies herself in the kitchen, pouring herself a glass of juice. Dressed and with a considerably less evident hard-on he falls back onto the sofa and sighs.

“Is your head alright? I haven’t even asked you,” he says feeling guilty.

“I’m fine d’Artagnan, it really was just a fender-bender, I promise,” she tells him, one hand back in his damp hair checking on the bump. “You?”

“Yeah, sure, it’s nothing, I barely even feel it,” he tells her, jerking away. Constance’s face goes blank at the almost violent way that he’s pulled away from her and she takes a step back. 

“I’m sorry,” he tells her quietly, “it’s just awkward, you being so close,” he admits.

Constance’s expression softens. “I um, I know what you mean,” she says, her expression sheepish. “It’s been a while hasn’t it?”

Completely surprised by her candour, D’Artagnan cocks his head to one side. “That afternoon in the farmhouse,” he reminds her tentatively, not sure where this is going.

Constance lets out a giggle. “Yeah, we were moments away from being caught by Athos, you know. I can’t believe he walked into the house just seconds after you left my room. I felt like I was a teenager hiding from my parents, you know, sneaking around, stealing kisses and shagging in toilets, I’m glad that’s over at least.”

“Glad that’s over?” d’Artagnan asks, his heart in his throat.

“The sneaking around and lying to everyone, you idiot, not the sex part.”

“So the sex part is something you might not want to be over?” Fuckin’ ‘ell, he can’t believe that just came out of his mouth.

Constance gives him a curious look and then moves to lie back on d’Artagnan’s bed. “Well, no one can say you don’t fuck like a champ,” she tells him and he is completely thrown by her bluntness. 

“Especially when your hyper excited, like now,” she says succinctly. “When you get all revved up about something, whether it’s work or hiding from the others or when you’ve had a few too many with Porthos, it’s pretty much the best sex ever.”

“Constance, are you purposely being cruel? Because we both know I’m seconds away from blowing my load in my pants,” he tells her flatly. 

“No, I’m not, I guess I’m just…rusty,” she says and she turns away from him, rolling onto her side and hiding her face the duvet. “Fuck it all, that was embarrassing,” she says and though it comes out muffled he gets the gist of it.

In two strides he’s sitting beside her on the bed and he rolls her over gently towards him. She grimaces but doesn’t look away. “I think we’re both rusty,” he tells her. D’Artagnan runs shaking fingers over the cut and the bruise above her brow and frowns. “We need to get this checked again tomorrow. I don’t like the look of this bruise.”

“We both fit in the bed, you know,” she says tentatively, her blue eyes searching, “I’ve missed you.”

D’Artagnan feels a rush of emotion; his eyes water and fill with tears. A tiny part of him wants to ask her why she’d abandoned him when he’d nearly died and refuse her request, but the logical part of him knows he’d deserved it. One tear snakes down his face before he can wipe it away and Constance reaches up and swipes at it and then she pushes his hair behind his ears, the gentle gesture sending more tears spilling forth. 

“Come on, it’s been a long day,” she says, pulling him to lie down in the bed. When they are settled face to face beside each other, Constance uses the edge of the duvet to wipe away the rest of his tears. “What’s with the waterworks, mate?” she teases, but her expression is serious.

“You have to ask?” he whispers, burying his face in her hair and sniffling.

“Oi, you’d better not get my hair full of snot,” she warns. D’Artagnan manages to bark out a laugh and he kisses the top of her head.

He freezes when she reaches under his t-shirt and runs a gentle finger down the raised scar that runs down the middle of his chest. The last time she’s had a look at it she’d seemed shocked and disgusted. Her fingertips run over it with the gentleness of butterfly wings and when she looks up at him her eyes too are wet with tears.

“We’ve both fucked this all up royally, haven’t we?” she says forlornly. “I was so angry and afraid and frustrated that I walked away without realising that you might…that you could have died, thinking that I no longer loved you.”

“Yeah, well I deserved it. I was a complete wanker and I accept that now. I’m so sorry for the pain I’ve caused you Constance, truly I am,” he whispers sincerely. “I know it won’t be easy but I was hoping that we could…maybe try and start over?” 

“Only if some things change, d’Artagnan, because I can’t go through this again, I won’t.”

“I’ll do anything I ‘ave to, even if it mean quitting the Agency,” he tells her fervently. “I love what we do; we serve our country and there’s the thrill of course and the camaraderie, but you are so much more important to me than any of that. I’ll walk away tomorrow if that’s what you want.”

Constance pulls her hand out from under his shirt and rolls onto her back. She shuts her eyes and lets out a tired sigh. “It’s all changing anyway. Have you spoken to Treville?”

“No why?”

“Well for one, Porthos wants out of the field. He and Ellie are getting married and he no longer wants to be on the front line so he’s taken a management position in Counter-terrorism. Athos is taking over from Treville as the head of Team 3 and Aramis is taking Athos’ place as senior agent,” she explains. 

“And Treville?”

“He’s been promoted up the MoD ladder to a proper desk job with retirement just a few years down the line. I’m happy for him, he’s been at this way too long, it’s time for him to take on something must less stressful.”

“What about me? Has anyone said where I’ll be fobbed off to?”

“Anywhere you want. We’ve all been promoted, d’Artagnan, pay rise and all, heroes of the year for taking down Rochefort and Marcheaux, who were both a major threat to national security. The rest have already chosen what they want to do but have another month before it all happens. But only one of us can stay with Team 3, that was made very clear to me,” she explains tentatively. 

“I don’t think I can stay with the Team, Constance and be anyone different than I’ve always been, leopard and his spots and all that,” he tells her truthfully. “Maybe Counter-terrorism for me too, or back to the military, I need to think. If you go back, it’ll be you and Aramis and three complete strangers?” he says, unable to keep the worry from his voice. 

“Probably, but we’ll all get a say. Athos says there’s a few agents who fit the bill and I trust him implicitly. But I haven’t decided yet anyway, the position was made available to either you or me, and obviously you haven’t been approached yet so I was waiting to hear what you wanted to do. The other would get the posting of their choice elsewhere within the MoD. Treville was not nearly as angry as I’d expected, by the way, but he drew the line at us ever working together again.”

“Honestly? I want everything to go back to the way it was. But since that’s not going to happen I can’t go back. I’ll probably go mental though if you go back to Team 3…but I’ll accept it of course.”

“How very generous of you,” she says, but she’s smiling so he knows she understands. 

“I’m not fit for duty yet anyway,” he admits, disappointed. “I’ve been begging them to sign off on me but they won’t. The physical therapist says I’m only half way there for any combat-related position and my shrink says I’m still too ‘volatile’ for my own good.”

“Your shrink?” she questions, surprised.

“Yeah, MoD appointed, they sent me an email last month telling me that it was mandatory. To be honest, I’d been considering it anyway, and since he’s one of us it’s been easier to unload,” he says sheepishly. “It’s been a lot more helpful than I’d expected. And since Rory’s seen combat himself he understands a lot more than I’d imagined, so yeah, it’s all good.”

Constance nods and turns onto her side, burying her face against d’Artagnan’s neck, one arm going around his middle. “I’m tired, and I’m weary and I just want to sleep with you by my side again,” she admits. His girl is hardly ever this vulnerable and it makes his heart miss a beat. There’s still a lot to be said, and a lot more to work through, but for now he’s more than content to just be by her side.

“Close your eyes,” he whispers, arms going around her and pulling her into his embrace. “I’m here, and I promise I’m never going anywhere, ever again.”

 

Epilogue

 

In October they’re both back to work and living together in the tiny sublet while they look for a more permanent situation. Team 3 has relocated to London again and Constance is working with Aramis and three other seasoned agents, a woman in her late thirties named Jordan, a young bloke around her age called Tom that d’Artagnan, incidentally, is extremely jealous of, and Mick, a seasoned soldier who, like Porthos once had, has assigned himself their ‘muscle’ of sorts and clashes fondly with the ladies over his protective nature. The fact that Aramis is by her side makes the whole situation more bearable for d’Artagnan because he knows that the man he calls brother cares for his girl probably as much as he himself does. 

D’Artagnan has a new job and a new boss. He’d accepted the position Porthos had offered him to command a team under him in Counter-terrorism, his experience in espionage and in the military making him a valuable asset to Porthos’ division. Already with a few successful operations under his belt d’Artagnan feels that he’s made the right choice and the fact that he works closely with Porthos has made the transition much easier to bear. Leaving Team 3 had been the hardest thing he’d ever had to do but working with one of his brothers has made it all good and he settles into the position seamlessly. There is still some ribbing about his age since some of the men and women he commands are older than him but not one of them has ever questioned his authority or his ability to do the job. 

Autumn melds into winter and with Christmas comes a special gift; a home of their own. After months of searching Constance and d’Artagnan finally find a flat they can afford to buy, in a newish building just ten minutes from his parents and 10 minutes from Porthos and Ellie’s new home, something that pleases Constance to no end, since she and Ellie have become quite close. With her own family in Preston, in Lancashire, d’Artagnan’s mum and Ellie fill the empty space left by the long distance between her own mother and sister, who the couple try to visit as often as possible.

They spend Christmas with his parents and Boxing Day at Porthos and Ellie’s new place, a beautiful old Victorian home that they’d bought only a month previously so there was still plenty to do and stacks of unpacked boxes here and there. Aside from the organised chaos there is a breathtaking Christmas tree; it reminds d’Artagnan of the one they’d had when he was a child, a mismatch of ornaments made by Marie at school, fancy collectables and cheap filler decorations from Poundland. To d’Artagnan, it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, a tree decorated with love. Beside the tree, Aramis is lying on the sofa, still recovering from a gunshot wound to his lower left abdomen and milking his injuring for all it’s worth, little Marie playing nursemaid to ‘uncle ‘Mis’ and catering to his every whim. 

The day it happened was one of the worst days of d’Artagnan’s life. Constance took a through and through to the shoulder, small calibre, so thankfully she’d been up and about within a few days. That had scared at least 10 years off his life for sure but Aramis, however, had frightened the life out of all of them, with a week of touch and go and two surgeries to stop the internal bleeding. D’Artagnan used all of his sick days at his new job to be at his friend’s side; he was useless to Counter-terrorism anyway without his head on straight and Aramis has always been there for him at his worst moments, there was no where he’d rather be. Sitting beside an unconscious and unresponsive Aramis had been a huge wake-up call; this is what he’d put them through, the multiple times he’d been injured, many of those times preventable and downright avoidable. He’d promised his shrink he’d become more responsible and sitting at Aramis’ bedside simply solidified that resolve.

The incident also had d’Artagnan begging Constance to quit the Team, but Constance of course was having none of it. She told him she’d quit when he did, counterterrorism being the more dangerous of their respective jobs anyway, and d’Artagnan had known he’d lost the argument before it had even started. Although d’Artagnan’s unit had been forbidden from taking part in the operation due to the nature of his relationship with both Aramis and Constance, the video of the incident was evidence in much larger plan to take down a terrorist cell so he’d been forced to watch it repeatedly. The footage plays on a loop in his brain, over and over again and he’s very glad in those moments for Rory, his shrink. Aramis was exchanging a briefcase of fake information for cash in the sting operation as Constance and Tom, watching from the van, were providing back up while Jordan and Mick and one of Porthos’ units were waiting in the wings to move in and make the arrest. On the video, Aramis is about to take the cash when one of the suspects shoots him instead, choosing to keep the money and the information. It’s only years of experience that had saved Aramis’ life; his instincts kicked in and he’d twisted and rolled before the shot could hit him somewhere more vital. Constance was out of the van before Tom could even react and even though she’d taken a bullet to the shoulder d’Artagnan watched in pride as she shot both of the men dead before they could do any further harm. The image of Constance, hurt and bleeding while cradling a seriously injured Aramis was the source of his on-going nightmares and he was sure he’d never be rid of that scene as long as he lived.

“Why so gloomy, brother?” Aramis asks, curious. D’Artagnan is startled out of his thoughts and in a flash he’s out of his comfortable chair and helping Aramis, who’d been struggling to sit.

“You’re spoiling him, child,” Athos says with an exaggerated sigh from where he’s making a pitcher of something unrecognisable behind the make-shift bar. 

“All of you have been nursed back to health at some time or another by my capable hands, it’s my turn to be spoiled,” Aramis retorts. “Besides, he needs some physical activity after sitting on his skinny arse beside my bed for the past few weeks, doing nothing but wringing his hands like my dear old Nan.”

“Piss off the both of you, and my arse is not skinny…ask Constance, she’s says it’s…”

Athos barks out a laugh and raises a hand to silence him. “TMI child, tmi.”

“Still haven’t answered me, lad, it’s Christmas, why so glum?” Aramis asks, sipping the colourful cocktail that Athos had handed him. “We’re all here, we’re all in one piece, more or less,” he says with a grimace, “waiting for what smells like an amazing lunch being prepared by the ladies…and Porthos,” he adds cheekily, “so why do you look like someone who’s lost his kitten?”

D’Artagnan runs a hand through his much shorter hair – new job, new rules – and lets out a long breath. “It’s just…well the lives we lead, I never thought it would leave me feeling so…vulnerable? I don’t know how to explain it…it’s complicated, innit?”

“That is an understatement child,” Athos says drily, handing d’Artagnan a beer; he knows better than to offer him whatever is in that pitcher, d’Artagnan thinks. “But from the moment we decided to serve our country, it was always going to be like this…complicated. If you want out I’m sure Treville has enough pull to find you a nice, boring, well-paid desk job where you can drink Starbucks all day, duck out to Pret to buy faux organic sandwiches and knock back a few at the pub after five with your colleagues. I’m not winding you up, child, anyone would be envious of a job like that.”

D’Artagnan shudders theatrically. “I’ll pass, mate, but thanks for the visual, I needed that just in case I’d ever be tempted.” 

“You’re very welcome,” Athos says with a smirk, and he fills up Aramis’ glass again from the pitcher.

“What even is that? It looks too colorful to be anything good,” d’Artagnan tells him with a snicker.

Aramis takes a sip and sighs. “It’s fruity and spicy, and with only a splash of alcohol because apparently I’m not allowed a proper drink just yet. Athos, can’t you add just a bit more rum, brother? I’m dying here,” he says dramatically.

“You are all like children,” Athos sighs fondly, “to the one, none of you ever follows the doctors’ instructions.”

Their banter is interrupted by the appearance of Constance, Ellie, Marie and Porthos, all carrying food out from the kitchen. The table is already set and d’Artagnan hurries to Aramis before he tries to get up on his own. 

“I’m alright, lad, I promise,” Aramis tells him softly, giving d’Artagnan a meaningful look. “I see you’re struggling with this, being on the other side, but that’s good, you needed some sense shocked into you. If my pain and suffering has achieved it, so be it,” the older man says with only a hint of mockery and d’Artagnan impulsively gives the other man a hug.

“What’s with you, lot,” Porthos calls from the table, “get your arses over ‘ere now, I slaved in the kitchen all day for this!”

Ellie gives him a light slap on the shoulder. “Me and Constance slaved, mate, you drank single malt and pretended to supervise.”

“You didn’t even peel the potatoes like you’d promised,” Constance complains, but she’s smiling, everyone is, and d’Artagnan realises that the good cheer is contagious and he laughs softly at their banter and helps Aramis to the table.

When they’re all seated, little Marie says grace and when she’s done Porthos kisses the crucifix around his neck.  
“I thought ‘e was the religious one,” Constance says, indicating Aramis.

Porthos smiles. “My mum was a devout Catholic, my dad a lapsed Muslim; me, I honour both of them and although I don’t make a big deal of it, I got faith, it ‘elps, when everything goes pear-shaped, trust me.”

“To faith,” Athos says, raising his glass. Everyone follows, and toasts are made from each of them, individually. 

When it’s d’Artagnan’s turn he clears his throat, his voice just a wee bit thick with emotion.

“To family; brothers and sisters…and nieces and nephews, of course,” he says, smiling at Marie. His eyes are damp as he looks around the table, but he doesn’t care. These people, right here, they’re the reason he continues to do what he does, they’re the reason he’ll never take that desk job. Aramis meets his gaze and winks and breaks the awkward silence with a loud ‘here here’ and the mood lightens at once, and food is served.

Constance leans over and kisses him, her lips lingering just a tiny bit before she squeezes his hand and they share a look. “Are you good, luv?” she asks, concerned.

D’Artagnan squeezes her hand back and takes another look around the loud, happy occupants of the table. 

“Yeah…I uh, I think I finally am.”

 

Fin

 

Next up…a few moments from Chapters 1 and 2

He hears Marie sobbing along with the other children and then there is barrel of a Beretta settled on his forehead and he prays to God the children won’t see his brains blown out of his head. 

“Who the fuck are you?” the man in the balaclava says furiously in a thick northern accent. London is not normally a place where parents take their children to school armed unless they are law enforcement or military and that’s what he wants to know.

“Security guard at Waitrose,” d’Artagnan replies, panting, and he is rewarded with a blow to his head with the barrel of the gun.

 

*****************

 

“What’s wrong?” Porthos asks at once. Athos is far too busy for unplanned social calls, this must be something…extreme.

“There’s a hostage situation…at St. Mary’s,” he says finally, 

Porthos feels all the blood drain from his head and he literally falls into the chair on the opposite side of his desk.

“Marie?” he asks, barely able to get the name out.

“Traumatized but fine, d’Artagnan…not so good.”

 

****************

 

When they finally arrive at the school they are both relieved to find that the entire area has been blocked off so there’s no press or curious onlookers, two of Porthos’ teams are in place in full body armor and carrying automatic weapons, as is local police for support and crowd control. A few minutes after Porthos and Athos are on the scene, a frantic Constance comes running up to them, Aramis close behind her.

“Is my pumpkin alright?” she asks, terrified. 

“She’s fine, we’ve got monitors in that van,” Athos says, indicating a van parked two meters away from them, “so we know she’s fine. Constance, d’Artagnan is inside as well,” he begins carefully, “and it appears as if he’s injured.”

Pothos moves forward just in time to catch Constance as she stumbles slightly. She takes a deep breath and searches both of their gazes before she asks. “Is it serious?”

 

**********************

 

A muscle in Aramis’ jaw is working furiously. “D’Artagnan needs medical attention I gather,” he says to Porthos and Constance once the back doors of the van are shut.

“Someone was tending to him, but I have no idea if she knows what she’s doing.” Constance replies, distractedly. “But we can’t let on that we know he’s been shot if they don’t tell us, they will know we have cameras,” she tells them worriedly.

“Right, well if we can get that information from them we can tell them we are sending in a medic – me – so that I can see how badly injured he is and be on the inside, sent you lot signals via the cameras, be there for out little pumpkin,” Aramis tells Porthos with sincerity. 

 

*********************

 

“Now little girl, what is yer Uncle’s name, come on darlin’ no one will ‘urt him again if you tell us, I swear.”

“Uncle ‘tan,” she says, still sobbing and clinging to him. “He’s my Uncle ‘tan.”

‘He’s d’Artagnan,” Whitey says slowly.

 

*********************

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, thank to everyone who stuck with this story. Somewhere along the line I realised that by writing from d'Artagnan's POV I'd written myself into a corner of sorts and although I personally liked the story I'd written, heavy on the angst/whump and the Constagnan (as Luke adorably called it himself!), I was not able to tell the story exactly as it maybe should have been told. But I don't regret it, because like I said, I personally liked what I had written, but sometimes that ends up being self-indulgent. In any case, the next story is shifting POV's, as in my story Restless Dreams, so everyone gets their say, their POV, their angst and all that, and since I've already laid out the backstory it will be mostly action from the get-go. I hope you will enjoy that story as well:)

**Author's Note:**

> I don't live in the UK but my offspring do so I spend lots of time there; please point out any glaring mistakes to British culture or use of slang. Also, the written language used in this story is British English because that is what is written and spoken where I live.


End file.
